Toward the end of each year as the trees are shrugging off their russet cloaks, to those who are susceptible, the peculiar tingling of Christmas’s magic once again makes itself known. Warmth, color and light, absorbed over a lifetime of Decembers, is re-released into the bloodstream, and with it the flickering shadows that are just as much a feature of the season.
The intensity of this sad and lovely internal glow may diminish with age and experience, but it is extremely hard to extinguish it altogether. The sight of a hard-hatted Japanese work crew taking down the decorations at 10 o’clock on a rainy Tokyo Christmas Eve, however, does a pretty good job of stomping on the embers.
So This is Christmas
Save for a few, admirably small-scale, family traditions, the Christmas season in Japan more or less fizzles out just as the Big Day arrives. Should you choose to open your own front door come the joyous morn (having exhausted the 24 offered by your expensively imported advent calendar), you will, in all likelihood, discover a scene inseparable in its mundanity from any other winter workday, which, of course, for 99% of the population it is.
It was into just such a humdrum wonderland that I made my way on my very first December 25 in Japan, still reeling from the act of yuletide desecration I had witnessed the evening before. I don’t remember much about that first underwhelming Christmas Day spent away from the colorful and cozy traditions of my family and my country; I think there was a sandwich and a coffee in a local Caffé Veloce, I’m pretty sure there was a half-hearted argument with my wife, and knowing myself as well as I’m unfortunately forced to, it’s a sure bet there was afternoon boozing, meaning, at least, that the whole thing ended more cheerfully than it began.
My initial eye-opening months in Japan had been a crash course in acceptance of other people’s (and countries’) insistence on doing things their own (sometimes baffling) way; a lesson that I had previously, perhaps, been too young and inexperienced to have taken to heart in anything but an airy and theoretical way. On that first somewhat challenging Christmas afternoon, however, I decided that if the folks of my new, and very different, home, wanted to revel for a while in the razzamatazz of the season, and then let it go lightly (saving themselves the cost, fuss, and emotional hullabaloo — not to mention the washing-up — of a British-style Christmas Day), then I could certainly see the sense in it.
I resolved to approach any subsequent festive seasons entirely free of expectations, while preserving, if possible, my own, still-gently-smoldering, spark of Christmas magic.
It’s the Little Saint Nick
The following Christmas found me peering at my reflection through fogged-up spectacles, as a strapped-on Santa beard (a rash-attracting acrylic nightmare determined to be inhaled one carcinogenic strand at a time) fought for space on my face with my own rust-colored whiskers, and I attempted a grand transformation in a tiny and appliance-cluttered washroom.
With the elastic of the Santa trousers garroting my waist, and the jacket (cut with a more streamlined mystical gift-giver in mind) almost, but not quite, held together by a cardboard belt and buckle, I emerged into the nursery where I worked, Ho-Ho-Ho-ing enthusiastically, but somewhat wheezily, through a mouthful of man-made fibers.
The eyes of the assembled kids lit up, in many cases with terror, and the room was filled with a distinctly un-festive chorus of sobs and wailing. Drastically reducing the volume of my vocal performance, and adopting the same gentle movements I might have made if I had been attempting to approach a nervous squirrel, I began to hand out the small, but colorfully wrapped presents I was carrying, one for each child.
As the wave of panic caused by my sudden and inexplicable appearance faded, and the fun of unwrapping (the same oyatsu snacks that they had every afternoon if I remember correctly) took over, the now-pacified little ’uns seemed persuaded that a visit from Father Christmas (as he is known to me) was not such a bad thing after all.
As a theatrical debut in an important role (one I would go on to perform many times) it was far from flawless, but as their familiar faces gazed up at me with expressions of cheerful curiosity and gratitude (better late than never!), I felt a rekindling of that Christmas magic and reveled (quietly) in the glowing appreciation of my audience.
All is Calm, All is Bright
Many (but not enough) years later, after my Mum had died, my Dad decided to visit me in Japan, courageously embarking on a trip that I hadn’t thought it likely he would ever take. His arrival in mid-December, a time when the Japanese weather, with its spirit-soaring blue skies and Sorollian afternoon sun, is, in my opinion, at its most beautiful and most distinct from Britain’s cheerless winters, allowed us to spend a unique and memorable Christmas period, for once in each other’s company.
We walked, talked, saw the sights, and looked at art (a shared passion that has helped to make up for my disappointing lack of interest in football). We were delighted most of all by a fortuitously-timed exhibition of Kawase Hasui’s superbly atmospheric shin-hanga (new prints), with each one seeming to us like a miraculous window to yesterday’s Japan. In the ones we stopped longest to peer at, tiny kimono-clad figures, lost, undoubtedly, to the world on our side of the pane, were still making their way through invigorating landscapes under the same clear blue winter skies that had blessed our time together.
Christmas lunch found us unpacking sandwiches by the beautiful shores of Lake Kawaguchiko, in a setting that seemed impossibly remote from the fondly-remembered festively-decorated tables (topped with roast potatoes and joke-filled crackers) that we had once sat at with my Mum, and a climate wholly unsuited to paper crowns. Even here the Christmas magic could be felt, revealing itself in a bright and calm spirit of peaceful togetherness, which I think, after all, is my favorite iteration.
In front of us as we ate (and making no attempt to hide on this special occasion) was Mount Fuji, elegant, yet terrifying in its serene and colossal desolation. For men as arthritically-inclined as us (knees run in our family) it was as insurmountable as our still-jagged and rocky grief, but it was good to sit in the Christmas quiet and face it together.
Season’s Greetings
Whether you celebrate Christmas or not, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to read my words. I wish you a pleasant end-of-year period and hope that the season brings you some fun and laughter with the people you love, some warmth and peace, something nice to eat and drink, and hopefully a little magic, all in whichever ratio you would choose for yourself.
All illustrations by Richard Koyama-Daniels
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