and Presence Under the Tree…**
By Fran Watson
I always find this time of year a bit of a conundrum.
Everywhere you look, there are messages about simplifying, cutting back, managing money, slowing down, and keeping the holidays meaningful.
And while I genuinely share those sentiments… something in me still aches for the magic Christmas held when I was a child.
Back then, the tree sparkled with tinsel (apparently it’s toxic now!), presents were piled high, and Santa—well, even when I knew who Santa really was—the stocking surprises still felt enchanted.
I loved everything about it.
The company.
The adult conversations I quietly eavesdropped on.
The salty-sweet snacks and sugary drinks we only got at Christmas.
The games, puzzles, and the voice of Rosemary Clooney floating from the enormous wooden RCA stereo that took up half our living room.
And I loved the ritual of it all—growing up in a devout Catholic home meant advent candles, pre-Christmas services, and sacred music that I still miss in my bones.
The porcelain nativity set.
The beauty of the story itself.
The way it all held us together.
Now, I understand something I couldn’t have then:
none of it would have existed without the devotion of my mother’s hands.
She baked, shopped, wrapped, wrote cards (when that was a thing), cleaned the house, planned the food, and somehow made magic appear on a timeline I now know required superhuman strength.
My sister and I helped. My brothers… well, I may need to do a little historical fact-checking there.
And now?
I do almost none of it.
Part of me is relieved—my nervous system is certainly grateful—but part of me sometimes misses the grandness of it all: the baking, the bustle, the orchestrated magic.
When my son Angus was young, I tried to recreate that world.
I baked my fool head off.
Did the Elf on the Shelf.
Put out the nativity set (I still treasure the one my mom made for me).
Shopped like a woman possessed.
Overdid it in every way possible.
Even last year, I made teacher treats—because they looked forward to them, and how do you disappoint people who look forward to something made with love?
But things shift. Families evolve.
And I’ve been slowly letting go of traditions that no longer fit our lives.
Sometimes that feels sad.
Sometimes it feels like relief.
Most of the time, it feels like truth.
One of the biggest truths is this:
my parents are gone.
When they were alive, there was still a thread connecting me to those early Christmas mornings: the stockings, the tradition, the playful way Santa eventually began visiting them too.
My childhood home was boisterous—three brothers, one sister, friends in and out constantly, skates and toboggans and card games and a whole lot of noise.
Now, those homes and those people live in different cities, different provinces, and coordinating gatherings—especially in winter—takes a small miracle.
Jim’s family is large as well. Every other year we rent a hall in Red Deer, fill it with laughter, noise, and food, and I love that gathering deeply.
But here, in our own home, it’s just the three of us.
And Angus, now 18, still loves presents, of course. I still shop—but not the way I once did.
We still have a tree.
I still bake, though gluten-free baking has a way of humbling even the most seasoned of us.
And I try not to consume sugar the way I once joyfully did.
The Christmas cards have dwindled.
The annual tree-hunting adventure disappeared the year real trees sold out and we bought the last artificial one at Canadian Tire.
And to my surprise—I don’t miss that part as much as I thought I would.
I’m no longer a practicing Catholic.
These days I love the seasonal celebration at the Centre for Spiritual Living.
It’s still sacred, but the music leans secular, and we honour many faith traditions. (This year’s service is on Sunday, December 21—details are here.)
Over time—by choice—everything has become simpler.
And I love that.
But there is one tradition I miss with a tenderness that surprises me every year:
I wish I could buy my mom a Christmas present.
Just one small, perfect little thing—a novel, a teacup, a soft scarf. Something that said, “I know you. I see you. I love making you happy.”
This is my fifth Christmas without her.
And the missing lands quietly, but unmistakably.
Still… there is beauty here too.
I have the joy of choosing a few small things for my little family.
Cooking something delicious.
Playing games with friends.
Finding stillness in the quiet places where presence feels like the real gift.
And this year, I’m adding something new—something I learned from a mentor, and something I hope you’ll try as well:
Contemplate a Divine Quality you desire to express more fully in the year ahead. For example …
Peace of Mind.
Powerful Health.
Delight.
Love.
Generosity.
Joy.
I’m still listening for mine. When I know, I’ll share it.
Then choose a symbol of that quality—or simply write the word on a small piece of paper. Wrap it. Place it under your tree.
And open it on Christmas morning.
A gift from your Divine Self.
A gift from Christmas Present.
I wish you a blessed holiday season—rich in whatever feels sacred to you, whether it’s an old tradition or something new that is gently emerging.
Much love,
Fran
P.S. If you feel called, I’m offering my annual online ceremony to release the year that has passed and welcome the year that’s ahead.
It has always been free. This year, I’m inviting a $20 contribution that will be donated to one of Calgary’s remarkable women’s organizations (the YWCA or Fear Is Not Love).
There is something powerful about consciously releasing what was—its disappointments, losses, and gifts—and opening to the wisdom and desire that want to guide you into 2026.