Every December, just when the days grow shortest and the nights longest, the world seems determined to speed up. It’s as if someone pressed a giant holiday “fast-forward” button. People rush here, there, and everywhere coats flying behind them like superhero capes, mittens left behind on counters, and shopping lists held together with hope and tape. Even the air seems to hum with the frantic energy of “must do… must get… must remember…”
I’m
not immune. I catch myself thinking, I
have to visit everyone on my list, naughty
and nice. (And
let’s be honest, the naughty ones are far more fun to visit.) Then come the
questions that never quite have answers: Where
do I get the right present for Sid? What does Sandy even want? Should I buy her
something she needs or something she’ll never use but will laugh about?
These
questions swirl around my head like snowflakes in a windstorm, except snow
eventually lands. My thoughts, however, just keep circling, keeping me focused
on doing rather than enjoying.
And
that’s when I remember the quiet.
Not
the absence of sound that’s rare in December, unless one lives deep in the
forest with only the squirrels for company but the kind of quiet that settles inside you. The quiet that arrives when
you stop moving long enough to let your shoulders drop, your mind rest, and
your breath deepen. The quiet that reminds you that joy doesn’t need to be
wrapped, purchased, or delivered before December 25th.
Some
of my favourite holiday memories the ones that never fade are made of exactly
that kind of stillness.
I
think back to childhood evenings when the world outside the window seemed
soundless. Snow fell like a gentle curtain, and the only light in the room came
from the glowing Christmas tree. My mother, who came from Romania, loved those
soft, peaceful evenings. She would stand quietly for a moment, looking at the
lights the way some people look at paintings in a museum slowly, reverently,
with a little sigh of contentment. Even as children, we knew to tiptoe a bit in
those moments, as if we were witnessing something sacred.
The
scent of pine, the low crackle from the radiator, the warm hum of someone
wrapping presents in the next room those small details created a hush that felt
like a gift in itself. A gift you didn’t need to open, only notice.
These
days, I look forward to the same thing. I look forward to the rare pockets of
silence I can claim during the holidays, like a bird collecting twigs to build
a nest: a good book waiting on the side table, a chair that fits my back just
right, a hot drink that warms my hands before it warms my insides. The simple
luxury of sitting still.
You
know the feeling: that moment when you finally sink into your favourite chair
and let out a sigh so deep it could deflate a snowman. That moment when the
sounds of the world soften into the background, a distant kettle, a neighbour’s
laugh, a car hurrying down the street and you realize you’re not missing
anything. Not one thing.
Quiet
doesn’t mean isolation. It means presence.
And
perhaps that’s what makes it such a powerful gift during a season that pushes
us toward more errands, more noise, more plans, more expectations. Quiet helps
us return to ourselves. It reminds us that our own company can be enough. That
appreciation grows best in stillness. That peace is not an accident; it’s a
choice.
When
we give ourselves the gift of quiet even just a few minutes we become better at
noticing the small joys: the way holiday lights reflect in a windowpane, the
scent of oranges and cloves, the satisfying crunch of fresh snow under boots,
the warmth of a handwritten card. These are the moments we miss when we’re
racing.
I’m
not saying we shouldn’t celebrate the season in all its glorious bustle. The
holiday hustle has its charm too, especially when people overflow with the cup
of human kindness. There’s something beautiful in the way friends gather,
neighbours share treats, and strangers hold doors with a “Happy Holidays!” that
sounds like an invitation to smile.
But
quiet is what helps us appreciate the bustle instead of being buried by it.
So,
this year, I invite you to create your own small sanctuaries of stillness.
Light a candle. Sit beside the tree. Watch the snow fall. Let the world rush
while you pause long enough to feel your feet on the floor and your breath in
your chest. Choose moments that feel like peace wrapped in a soft blanket.
Because
in a season filled with gifts, big, small, practical, sentimental, the greatest
one might be the gift we give ourselves: a few precious moments of quiet.
It’s amazing how much joy can grow in silence.
