For so many years, our Christmas travels were traced in familiar, well-worn routes. They were not grand expeditions, but pilgrimages of the heart. There was the annual journey to Vancouver Island, usually in that quiet, reflective week after Christmas Day. We would bundle into the car, the backseat stacked with gifts and leftover shortbread, and make for the ferry. I can still feel the crisp, salty air on my face as we stood on the deck, watching the mainland recede into a grey mist. The scent of the sea, mixed with the ferry’s diesel fumes, was the smell of transition, of moving from our own new traditions back to the rootstock of my childhood.
Then there was the Christmas Eve drive to the in-laws’ home in Metro Vancouver. We’d brave the roads, often slick with a cold, Pacific Northwest rain, the windshield wipers keeping rhythm with the carols on the radio. The world outside would be a blur of taillights and neon reflections, but our destination was a beacon of light and noise. Pushing open the door was like stepping into a wall of warmth, the humid scent of a dozen simmering dishes, the roar of overlapping conversations, the shrieks of cousins playing in the basement. It was a beautiful, chaotic, and necessary journey, a tether to family that defined the season.
When retirement came, so did a new kind of freedom. With the children grown and the rigid schedule of work lifted, we decided to trade the snowy landscapes for summer sun. My wife, her mom and I spent a Christmas in Mexico, where the air was thick with the scent of frangipani and salt, and our tree was a palm tree strung with lights. My wife and I celebrated in Hawaii, with a picnic on the sand and the sound of waves providing a gentle, tropical carol. One remarkable year, we found ourselves in the bright Australian summer, with our grandson, my daughter and her partner, eating pavlova under a southern sky where the constellations were unfamiliar. The sensory details were vibrant and new: the taste of a mango straight from the tree, the feel of warm sand underfoot on Christmas morning, the sight of Santa Claus painted on a surfboard.
It was glorious, an adventure we cherished. Yet, amidst the novelty, there was a quiet, persistent whisper. It was the memory of the scent of a fresh-cut fir tree, the feeling of wool socks on a cold floor, the specific taste of my mother’s stuffing. We had escaped the winter, but we had also left behind the sensory anchors of the season we had known all our lives.
Now, we no longer travel during the Christmas season. The suitcases remain in the closet, and the world, with its planes, trains, and bustling highways, carries on without us. At first, it felt like a concession, but we have since discovered it is a profound gift.
Our home, which for decades was merely a pitstop between holiday gatherings, has become the destination. And in staying put, we have rediscovered the deep, resonant magic of a home at Christmas. Now, we have the time to truly savor the rituals. I can spend a whole afternoon watching my wife baking, letting the rich aroma of ginger and molasses truly settle into the walls. We can sit for hours with only the tree lights on, watching the play of color on the ornaments, each one a tangible piece of our shared history. The silence is not empty; it is full of memory and peace.
We understand why people brave the crowded airports and icy roads. They travel because there is, indeed, no place like home for the holidays. But what we’ve learned is that “home” is not just a physical location on a map. It is a feeling you carry, and sometimes, you must journey far away to find your way back to it.
Our home has become that sacred space. The travel we do now is not across miles, but through Christmases past. It is a journey taken in the crackle of the fireplace, in the taste of a familiar recipe, in the soft glow of the lights on our own tree, standing proudly in the corner where it has always stood. The greatest journey, we’ve found, is the one that leads you back to your own heart, to the quiet, steadfast joy of being exactly where you belong.
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