#is my life dull? unequivocally yes but now i have a PLANT

[senselessalchemist]

Got a plant for a holiday gift and I don't know if I've been so giddily excited for a present since I got my gameboy color at 8 years old

[charlthotte]

Breaking Through the Iron Wall - Aone Takanobu x Reader

Chapter 16

It must have been approximately three hours before we arrived back at school, in the early noon, with almost everyone staying slumbering the entire time - their gentle - and not so gentle snores ringing through the air. While I saved the page I was reading, Coach Oiwake instructed me to wake the rest of the team up.

One by one, I went around the team, waking them - some much easier than others. That was, until I came to rouse Futakuchi, who had no desire to depart from his dreams, sleeping as still as a log. Several shakes of his shoulders later, he still hadn't arisen from his drowse, no matter how hard I shook. Until, Kamasaki, the idiosyncratic schemer with his water bottle in hand, unscrewing its lid, ready to ensue utter chaos. And with a squeeze of the container, the liquid had sprung itself into Futakuchi's face, its coldness stirring him immediately, but unlike the rest, he quickly entered an unbridled rage directed straight at the conniver, Kamasaki.

Subsequently, with a new burst of vigour - Futakuchi leapt from his seat, bounding after his attacker, spitting a slew of obscenities from between his lips. Waving his arms around in unadulterated fury, he relentlessly chased Kamasaki around the car park, screaming that he would get his revenge in due time - causing a whole bucket of catastrophe. Without wasting any time, Takanobu and Coach Oiwake swiftly bounded out from the coach, rearing to hinder the fight between the two feral children. 

It took nothing more than a slight interference from Takanobu, a stern glance - for the two opposing teens to immediately put a halt to their skirmish, sheepishly apologising to each other, even if that was only for show. 

With a defeated sigh, Coach Oiwake beckoned the rest of us out of the coach, gesturing for us to listen to what he had to say, "So, I know that you're all exhausted and you've all worked incredibly hard today - and there isn't much time left of the school day anyway, so it'd be pointless if you went back into lessons now. Therefore, I will be giving you all the permission to head home slightly earlier today. You're all dismissed, I'll see you tomorrow." Then, he bid us farewell, waving us away with an unenthusiastic gesture.

And with that, each one of us grabbed our bags and jackets, eagerly heading out of the school gates, but still being absolutely enervated. However, that meant that the usual train that Takanobu and I would catch wouldn't be coming for quite some time to come - so we would have to loiter around somewhere until that time came. 

After waving goodbye to the rest of the team, Takanobu and I began strolling slowly towards the train station, but since we had time to kill, we turned and passed down different streets, until we came across a dainty, sweet, little café - its outside adorned by trellises; bound by tresses of white wisteria. The entire aura of it was truly welcoming and mellow, practically ushering us inside its doors.

"Hey, Takanobu - do you want to get something to drink?" I asked him, feeling somehow uplifted from the scenery around me.

From the way he responded, I could feel the exhaustion exuding from him - his eyes drooping gracefully while he sedately nodded his head, apparently too tired to entertain a conversation.

As soon as I walked through the doors the delightful aroma of pastries and beautiful beverages floated towards me, swimming through the air. I took a deep breath, savouring the delicious fragrance, before I ordered drinks for both Takanobu and myself - but before I could get my wallet out to pay for what I was purchasing - beside me, Takanobu delved into his bag at the speed of light in an attempt to get to his wallet, too. I gave him a glance to cast my disapproval, firmly placing my own upon the counter to pay. "How about we call this a reward for playing super well?" I chuckled, tilting my head to the side.

Takanobu sighed, seemingly defeated, nodding before sinking into the collar of his jacket. It genuinely looked like he would fall to sleep at any given second.

In a small matter of minutes, our drinks were ready - but rather than stay inside, we both made the unconscious decision to sit on one of the tables outside. After all, the sun was shining radiantly, along with the wisteria adorned trellises compelled me there, as if its aura gave me a sense of belonging.

"(Y/N)?"

My eyes flicked away from my drink, landing upon his face, "Yes, what is it, Takanobu?"

He pointed to the abundances of wisteria around us, his eyes filled with adoration as he scanned the scene, "What do they mean?"

Giggling at him softly, I answered his question - but, before I did so - a warm pang palpitated inside me. Was it my stomach? My heart? I couldn't tell. "Like most things, wisteria can have more than one meaning. First, it can symbolise the longevity and figurative immortality of life, illustrious beauty and absolute infatuation." Suddenly I halted my explanation, hesitating when I spoke those last two words, for some reason unbeknownst to me.

'Absolute infatuation'

Sensing that I had zoned out, I quickly carried on with my diatribe, "But, every part of the wisteria is poisonous, toxic, deadly even. Especially since it is a rapidly growing plant. Now, I'm not completely sure about this, but I'm quite positive that that gives the wisteria its other meaning - warning profusely about how dangerous 'absolute infatuation' is - and how quickly it can grow, and eventually, take over everything you once were. After all, unfiltered, unbridled love... it's terrifying." I looked down at the floor, slightly embarrassed by the subject at hand. 

Faintly, I could hear a soft chuckle from Takanobu's side of the table. That was until, he said something, something so quiet that even I struggled to hear him. Two words that purely shook me to my core. It may have simply just been me overreacting, but alas - I believe it was called for.

"You're amazing."

In an instant, my eyes gaze shot straight up to meet his. My eyes widened and my mouth parted slightly, hanging agape in revelation. I wanted desperately to reply to him, but at the time, I was incapable of forming coherent dialogue. Wringing my hands together, I laughed awkwardly, trying desperately to form a reply.

After taking several shallow breaths of reassurance, I made my best attempt at speaking, despite my mind had gone into complete overdrive, "Thank you, Takanobu... You're rather amazing, too."

My heart thrummed at a pace so terrifyingly loud that I worried that everyone within a kilometre radius could hear it. I felt stupendously awkward after that, with my gaze darting from place to place, searching for something to distract my mind from the inner turmoil I was experiencing.

After shifting my line of sight many times, the only thing I was drawn to was Takanobu's face. It was like I was magnetised towards it. Unequivocally compelled towards him.

Our eyes met each other, and in that instant that they did, everything froze, everything fell silent, the world stopped turning. In those few seconds, no one existed but us.

And even though, every thought in my head told me to turn away - I was frozen too, our gazes seemed to be permanently latched to one another, neither one of us wanting to break away first. 

However, after a small eternity of making unrelenting eye contact, I was the first to break away, staring straight down at my beverage until I had finished every single last drop of it.

Neither of us spoke until we were walking back to the train station, following a road that I had never come across before. But, the complete opposite could be said for Takanobu - as he abruptly tensed up and stopped moving entirely when we passed one house in-particular. Its garden and exterior were completely barren, devoid of any wisp of joyousness - every inch of the walls covered in a dull, draining grey. There was no light or life exuding from the inside of the house at all. Its overall lack of spirit made it seem like someone had abandoned it, many eons ago.

Noticing how visually distressed Takanobu was, I finally broke the silence, "Hey, what's the matter?" I asked.

Before he replied, he swiftly moved further ahead until that house was out of his line of sight, "Nothing, it's just a place from my childhood." He whispered, careful to make as little noise as possible.

"Are you sure you're alright?" I questioned, growing increasingly concerned about the way Takanobu was acting.

"Yeah." He hesitated for a beat, "Could we please go to the train station now?" His eyes shining with an immense tone of pleading.

"Oh... Of course." I said, leading Takanobu away from the house that seemed to be haunting him.

It took significantly less time than usual to arrive at the station, as Takanobu was walking at a much speedier than what he normally did. Which, ending up being quite a fortunate thing, as we only got onto the train with as much time as a blink of an eye able to pass, before it would have set off without us. 

However, nearly straight after we sat down, Takanobu's head began to loll downwards - snapping it back up if it ever drooped too low. Eventually, he leant against the window beside him, his eyes fluttering open and closed - his entire face relaxing as he began to fight a losing battle between him and the valiant forces of slumber.

While he drifted off to sleep, I couldn't help but admire the view in front of me. The way the Sun hit his face in the most perfect manner, the way his chest slowly rose and fell with each inhale and exhale. Something about it was just so ethereal, and even though my conscience told me to look away, I couldn't divert my line of sight. Once again, my eyes were frozen in place.

Just before the train arrived at my stop, I gingerly took Takanobu's shoulder in my hand, rousing him softly, waking him from his slumber - and as he rose from the depths of his dreams, his eyelashes fluttered delicately across his face, fanning perfectly over his cheeks. But, as I got up to leave the train, so did he - not realising that he wasn’t yet at his destination. He must have have been confused, nothing more. 

As soon as we departed from the carriage, Takanobu immediately began conversing with me, "(Y/N), would you mind if you came to see Shiro with me?" He gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in some sort of trepidation. "I don't think I could do it alone."

I wasted no time with replying to him, "I wouldn't mind that at all, not one bit." I said, looking into his eyes, noticing something, some kind of aura shrouding him - one that I had never seen before - and much to my chagrin, I couldn't determine exactly what it was. Was it fear? Anxiety? Or perhaps something completely different?

Looking down at the pavement as I walked back to Takanobu's house, I could not hinder a peculiar feeling in the pit of my stomach, making it churn and flip around inside of me. And once again, I was questioning all that I knew. Putting all those queries to one side, I tried to coerce myself into believing that it was only a worrisome feeling for the sake of Shiro's health. But, deep down - I somehow knew that that wasn't true at all, I was only masking what thing was truly there - as a voice inside me, told me I wouldn't be able to handle the magnitude of the way I really felt.

Even by the time we had arrived at his house, I hadn't once let my vision deter from the path I was walking, it was almost as if I couldn't bare to look Takanobu straight in his eyes while he would look back into mine, in fear of something unknown.

While Takanobu opened the door to his house, the unease exuding from him was truly insurmountable, so much so, that anyone in the prefecture could feel it.

And that was completely understandable.

He didn't come running, nor did he walk over.

It was almost as if he didn't exist anymore.

Instead, he laid on the sofa, a morsel of what he was before - bones protruding under his skin, his fur thinned and brittle, his eyes no longer holding the spark of life that had been there before.

Shiro was merely a husk now.

Beside me, Takanobu's legs wobbled at the sight set before him - almost dropping to his knees in disbelief. 

Immediately, he ran to Shiro's side, seemingly forgetting his exhausted state - stroking the dog's back feebly, his hands quivering as he did so - careful not to disturb his friend before him. 

Ejiri must have noticed the sound of the door unlocking, quickly bounding down the stairs to greet us - wearing an expression showing both happiness and sorrow. Without wasting a second, she hurried towards the cowering form of her nephew, wrapping her arms around him with much vigour - truly ecstatic to see him again. Takanobu sunk into her arms, even though, he stood a whole head higher than her - resting his head upon her shoulder, beginning to silently sob into her, his breath hitching and releasing at an unkempt rhythm.

"Don't cry, honey... He's here now and that's all that matters in this moment." Ejiri spoke, patting her nephew's back in an effort to calm him down, "I'm here for you, darling... I always will be." She smiled serenely, "I travelled halfway across the world for you, I dropped everything I had for you - but, I'd do it again infinitely. I will never let you feel isolated again. So, know that I will always be there - no matter the time, no matter the place, no matter what." She reached up and ruffled Takanobu's hair, guiding him towards the sofa where Shiro laid. Then, she turned to me - her arms outstretched, carrying a grateful grin on her face, "And you, my dear - I can't express my gratitude for you enough. You have helped my boy greatly, especially in these not so nice times." After briskly patting my arm, she popped up from the sofa, heading towards the kitchen.

Looking over to the sofa, I saw a sight so beautiful, yet heart breaking - seeing the dreary eyes of Shiro droop in a daze, seeing the immense hurt burning behind Takanobu's eyes. I made way over to them, kneeling on the sofa next to the sick animal, stroking his back, careful not to cause him any pain.

As Ejiri came back into the room, a steaming mug in hand - Takanobu lifted his gaze away from Shiro, "How long?" He uttered, his eyes beginning to prick with a single tear.

She sighed, preparing herself for the news she was about to deliver, "Three days at best." She whispered, furrowing her brows, "I'm sorry."

Takanobu's arms dropped suddenly, in shock - bringing one of them up to cover his mouth, he whimpered, squinting his tears away. His body began trembling, shaking along with his lamentation, his breaths becoming laboured. In that moment, there was something in his eyes, a heart wrenching realisation that what was to come was absolutely inevitable. His face froze in place as tears continued to cascade down his cheeks.

Feeling his sorrow alongside him, I rushed over to his side by pure instinct - comfortingly caressing his back, while leaning my head on his shoulder. The sheer amount of pain he was feeling genuinely hurt me, too.

Takanobu took in an unsteady breath, "(Y/N), will you be there... When it happens?" He spluttered.

I twisted my head upon his shoulder, now facing his tortured expression, "Of course I will."

He smiled slightly, trying to hide the pain - wrapping one of his arms around my shoulder, rubbing into it gently with the pad of his thumb. We stayed like that for a while, enjoying each other's company while we could - Takanobu never letting Shiro leave his sight for a single second, as if he thought if he looked away - he'd disappear.

Eventually, enough time had passed, so that Takanobu's exhaustion had caught up with him. So, I shimmied from underneath his arm, slowly manoeuvring him so he leant upon the sofa, his head resting next to Shiro.

Not wanting to impose upon their household any longer, I grabbed my belongings, heading towards the door. But before I did, Ejiri came shuffling towards me, signalling for me not to depart just yet. "One minute, (Y/N)! I wanted to give you Takanobu and I's phone numbers before you go." She paused, handing me a slip of paper with two numbers on it, "For when the time comes." 

I took the note, thanking her for her hospitality - leaving the house in quite the sullen mood.

Upon arriving home, I was greeted by an overly enthusiastic embrace from my father and a lack of her presence from my mother. The usual.

My dad requested that I told him all about the trip to Tokyo - but of course, I left out some of the details - for the sake of my dignity. And in return, he began drabbling about his recent experiences at work, leaving me truly enthralled by his anecdotes. After a long while, he ended his side of the conversation - finally letting me head upstairs into my room. 

While I unpacked my bags, I took the hydrangea out from between the pages of my book, admiring it for a minute or two, before putting it back in the book - letting it rest there as a memory from the trip. I smiled at the thought of it, and how little of a thing that flower was - yet the amount of significance truly resonated with me.

For the rest of the week, everything flowed by rather smoothly, lessons being as average as they could be, Futakuchi being his usual self. Except for Takanobu, who seemed to become more and more solemn as each hour passed by. I didn't think that any person could ever appear that doleful. That was, until late Friday night, as I laid on my bed, trying desperately to fall asleep - my phone began to ring. On the other end was Takanobu's voice, tremulous from the fact he was crying. He didn't need to say much, I knew what was happening. His voice rang out...

"It's time..."

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

It Takes a Luthor

(continued from this post-s4 black mercy ficlet)

There's only one person who might be able to get through to Lena where Kara failed. Not Alex, stained by association, or James or Brainy or Nia. Even if Lena still trusts any of them, they run the risk of slipping into the fabric of the fantasy.

Lena is fading, and they don’t have time for subtle. They need a goddamn tank.

So Kara tracks down the one person Lena would never expect to see: her mother.

"This is your fantasy?" 

The room quakes violently as Lena surges to her feet, listing drunkenly until Kara Danvers steadies her. 

"Mother?” The word slurs on Lena’s lips, as she blinks sluggishly and leans heavily against Kara Danvers.

 “What-- what are you doing here?"

"Saving your life," Lillian replies succinctly. She surveys the space around her with thinly veiled distaste, taking in the clutter and the clothes drying on the rack in the corner of the kitchen. "And your standards, hopefully."

"I don't want you here." 

Lillian's focus snaps to her daughter, narrowing to take in the dark circles beneath her eyes and the pale of her skin. Lena's knees shake, then give out entirely. 

“Lena!” 

Kara Danvers is already there, helping Lena sit. Her attention is gentle. Intimate. Lillian expects Lena to brush it off-- Lillian would. But her daughter’s eyes close and she leans into the fingers that push the hair from her face.

"I'm just... tired," she says. "All of a sudden."

"I told you not to work so late last night," Kara chides gently. Her hand cups the back of Lena’s head for the briefest of moments, and an unexpected surge of resentment flares in Lillian’s chest at the sight of it. 

"You should take a nap," the mirage says, and Lena nods.

"Lena!" Lillian snaps, slicing her voice through the tender quiet with sharp precision. She sweeps towards her daughter, only to come face to face with the alien imposter. "Get out of my way."

"She needs rest," the false Kara Danvers replies. Uncharacteristic danger glints in her eye. "And you need to leave--"

"I don't take orders from a construct," Lillian retorts. She shoves past the roadblock to crouch in front of her daughter. 

"Hey," Lena protests blurrily. "That's my construct."

"So she did tell you--"

"Figured it out. Be nice to her." Lena takes a slow blink, and struggles to open her eyes again. "’M so tired..."

“That’s because-- Lena, open your eyes… Lena!” She gives Lena’s cheek a smack, rousing her sharply. Green eyes fly open to focus blearily on Lillian.

“What you’re feeling isn’t exhaustion,” Lillian tells her. She studies Lena carefully, sees the way she has to work to breathe. “That pressure on your chest is a Black Mercy, siphoning your energy. It will keep you here until it leeches you dry. You aren’t tired, Lena. You’re dying.”

“Oh.” Whatever reaction Lillian expects, Lena's calm nod isn't it. "That's… that’s okay."

"Lena..."

"I'm happy here."

Lillian scoffs, withdrawing in irritation. "Here? You must be joking."

This time it’s Lena’s turn to scoff. She does so without mirth, her features twisting into a scowl even as she sucks in a thin breath. "Right,” she drawls. “Warmth and trust and affection... What could a Luthor possibly need with those?"

The room seems to freeze. Kara Danvers looks on without a word, confident in her silence, and Lillian sees Lena for the first time in years. Truly sees her. Sees Lena and the entirety of who she is. The brilliance is familiar already, but the vulnerability beneath stands in stark relief.

Her need for attachments always set Lena apart. Lex always took after his parents-- Lillian especially. It had made it easier to dismiss Lena’s weakness as just that. Weakness. 

But here Lena sits, the last and greatest of them all, on the cusp of the world she’d always dreamed-- of a life beyond the shadow of her brother.

And she’s giving up.

"I'm sorry, Lena."

Her daughter looks up at her with wide eyes, and for a split second Lillian sees the face of that four year old little girl who'd stepped into her house all those years ago.

"You've always needed more,” Lillian continues. “More attention, more... tenderness. And I've always refused it."

"Because Daddy didn't like it. I remember."

"Yes, but also-- because I didn't know how to give it."

Lena blinks, bewilderment etched into every crease of her face. It looks like the face of another.

"You had so much of your mother in you," Lillian says, "it felt as though there was no room for me. I never realized how alike we truly were. I do now."

Lillian reaches up, cupping Lena's cool cheeks in her palms. 

"You are better than this. You are better than some half-baked fantasy. You are Lena Luthor, and you have never once given up. You will not start now."

"I'm tired, Mother." Lena's voice grows thin, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm so tired."

It's more than the exhaustion of an alien plant slowly leeching her vitality. Lillian can see the weight of the world pressing on her shoulders, the blows that have ripped pieces of daughter away until she feels like nothing.

If there is one thing on this earth Lillian knows unequivocally, without a doubt, it's that Lena Luthor is not nothing.

Lena Luthor is more than Lillian was ever willing to consider. 

She has reset the course of history, and remade the Luthor name in her image.

Yet here she sits on the cusp of having the very thing she always wanted-- a life beyond her brother's shadow-- and she doesn't even seem to want it.

“I killed Lex.”

Lillian blinks. “What?”

Lena meets her gaze with dull eyes. Her voice grinds, strangled by a lack of breath and a throat constricted by tears. 

“I shot him… point blank in the chest. I watched him bleed out, and when he was dead I turned around and left him there in his bunker for the rats to feast on.”

Lena blinks, and her tears spill over onto pale cheeks. She watches Lillian, waiting for her reaction. Bracing for it.

“Am I still worth saving?” Lena asks, inhaling sharply. “Now that you know I killed your precious son-- your true child… are you sure this isn’t exactly what I deserve?”

Lillian stares at her. She’s shocked, but it’s not betrayal that tightens her grip on Lena’s hands. It’s not grief for her son, who she lost long before she thought Supergirl had done the deed. It’s surprise. 

She’d never thought Lena had it in her.

“I think… that you’ve succeeded where I failed.” Lillian offers something resembling a smile. “Again.”

“Mother…”

Lillian reaches up, and tucks her hair behind her ear, letting her palm cup Lena's cheek. "Every time you reached for me, I pulled away.”

Lena coughs, wheezing sharply. Her fingers clamp around Lillian’s wrist, gripping it tightly. Lillian doesn’t pull away. Not this time.

“I'm reaching now.”

The room shakes again, more violently than the first time. It pitched her into Lena’s knees, but instead of gaining strength as the integrity of the fantasy crumbled, Lena gasps and clutches at her chest. 

“Mom--”

“It’s time to come home, sweetheart."

Wheezing, Lena nods.

"You have to reject this, honey. Refuse it, and you'll wake up. Are you ready?"

At Lena's second nod, Lillian helps her to her feet. When Lena leans against her, Lillian can't help but hold her closer. Something in her grows tight at the contact, and then unravels when her daughter's head rests on her shoulder.

"Let's go home."

"No!" 

With a roar, the false Kara Danvers rips Lena from Lillan’s arms and clutches her tight to her chest. Bruising fingers dig into the flesh of Lena’s arms, pulling a cry of pain from her lips.

"You don't love her," Kara snarls. Her eyes glow with rage and building heat. Lillian’s stomach drops when she realizes that this isn’t the real Supergirl. That this, this thing has no code against killing. "She deserves better than you."

"Let me go," Lena murmurs, pulling weakly against the woman's grip. "Kara, stop!"

"She deserves better than you," Lillian counters. 

Maybe, just maybe, if she can distract it just long enough, Lena can break free. 

"There is no fantasy you could give her here that Lena can't surpass in reality. You're a cheap imitation of an alien blight on this planet, and while my daughter might find value in the real thing, you are nothing. You don't get to have her."

“I already do,” Kara snarls, eyes flaring. “But you know what? I don't mind a two for one."

Time seems to slow as the alien's heat vision fires. Lillian registers the discharge of energy, projects its path to connect with her chest-- but then there's Lena, stepping between them.

The cry that pierces the quiet is not her own.

"Lena!"

Lillian blinks and suddenly she's staring up at a sterile ceiling as her ears fill with sound of crisis.

As bodies press and rush around her, as the screaming heart monitor heralds Lena's final moments, Lillian closes her eyes and holds the image of her daughter in her mind, clinging to it as the last part of Lena she'll ever see

Then, the shrill shriek of the monitors pulses once.

Then again, for a second time.

A third. 

The room holds its breath, and when Lillian opens her eyes she sees a dark shape slithering from the gurney next to her, reaching for a perilous moment before it shriveled and died.

The bustle returns when Lena gasps her first breath. Medics and nurses call out stats, and for a moment, Lillian simply listens. When the bodies between them part, she turns towards her daughter. There's an oxygen mask over Lena’s mouth and nose, and the eyes that blink sluggishly at the ceiling are glassy with shock. 

Still, they turn, searching, and focus on Lillian through the haze.

Lillian's hand reaches across the divide. Her fingers only just brush the length of Lena's arm.

Her daughter's eyes close, but her chest continues to lift, her lungs keep breathing. She's alive.

If there is one thing Lillian does right-- just one thing to save the world… Let it be this.

Let it be Lena.

[killingthebuddha]

A few years ago, I purchased a little nativity scene that held a tea light inside. There it sat at a local fair trade holiday sale, a surprisingly Christian symbol on a table strewn with reindeer, snowmen, the pointy shapes of evergreen trees, and other apparently more secular reminders of the holiday season.

I hesitated. I’d long since discarded, I thought, most traditional Jesus-centered observances at Christmastime. Every December my interfaith family throws open its home to the promise of light, whether that be the light of eight candles burning, the light found in a tiny baby’s new life, or the return of light after the darkness of the solstice. We decorate our home in hues of blue and white, red and green, mixed together in a blend that nevertheless recognizes each tradition as its own, and the progressive religious tradition in which I’ve long found a home celebrates many meanings in the December season.

My hand hovered over the candle holder, with stars cut through the dome of sky to let the candle’s light out. Painted in matte colors with basic, almost childish strokes, Mary and Joseph cluster around the figure in a tiny cradle, simple houses and desert plants hovering in the background. No wise men, shepherds, or angels visit the scene, just the one small, growing family, and stars hanging in the sky above.

I brought the nativity scene home, and set it on our table.

* * *

Every year it hits me, this nostalgia, a backwards glance at Christmases past. It’s my own version of the December dilemma, the difficulty of a holiday connected to and yet separate from the specificity of one tradition. Could I do Christmas without Christ, as I’d been doing for years, letting angels, snowmen and scented evergreen stand in for all the other meanings of the season? Yes, my mind wanted to say, of course I can! After all, our modern-day Christmas originates with the merging of the Roman holiday Saturnalia as a convenient time to celebrate the birth of Jesus, later layered with northern European traditions of Father Christmas and evergreen trees.   

And yet, purchasing the little nativity scene convinced me that I had unfinished business with the religion of my youth, and that winter, I went back to the denomination I hadn’t visited in years, one that lights an Advent wreath and sings the real words to hymns like “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” and “Once in Royal David’s City,” rather than universalized alternatives set to the same tunes. I decided to give putting Christ back in Christmas a thorough church season or two of effort. Wouldn’t it be more honest to keep this reason for the season intact, if I still felt drawn to it? Didn’t it make sense to return to a place where a single symbol conveyed a world of meaning?

*  * *

                                                       When I was a child, we set our nativity scene up on a Japanese-style medicine cabinet that stood in the front hallway. When I was old enough to carefully remove the wooden figurines from the funny shredded paper packaging that kept Mary, Joseph, the wise men, and a few shepherds and angels safe from year to year, it felt like a rite of passage. I’d attained an age when I could handle delicate, sacred matters, carefully arranging Joseph and Mary around the empty wooden cradle, hanging the biggest, blue-robed angel, the one with a white “Gloria in excelsis” banner, on the old nail at the top of the rough wooden scene.

Jesus always sank during the year to the bottom of the paper shavings, and we’d put his naked little plastic self into one of the top drawers of the cabinet, one of the drawers that didn’t contain a host of unused coupon clippings or random stashes of ribbons, buttons, and other long-forgotten supplies. Come Christmas morning, my brother and I were too busy with Santa, stockings, and a plate full of once-a-year Christmas cookies to worry too much about the baby hidden in his dark, lonely manger of a deep wooden drawer. My parents watched us opening gifts, the baby Jesus equally forgotten, our parents equally sidelined by the effusive magic of the present morning.

Usually we remembered Jesus sometime in the early afternoon, after the presents had been opened, breakfast cleared away, my brother and I lost in a pile of new packages, my mom in the kitchen preparing a traditional Christmas dinner. Inevitably, someone would call out, “we forgot the baby Jesus!” and we’d all laugh, run to the manger scene, tenderly lay the naked plastic figure in his cradle, and return to our other activities.

*  * *

Nostalgia paints the world in tones of sepia and roses, offering a false picture of a past that may not keep its promises for the present. Leigh Eric Schmidt, in his now-classic book Consumer Rites (which explores the consumerist origins of our modern holiday traditions), translates the yearly December nostalgia as a concern in “modern, industrialized societies for the genuine, the handcrafted, the authentic, or the real. Modern holidays and their rituals are thought to be sadly insubstantial, ersatz, or hollow; they are never so good, genuine, joyous, or fulfilling as they used to be.”

If it seemed that my own celebration of December holidays had fallen prey to this suspicion, to the fear that my winter-themed, commercialized holiday was somehow in tension with a more “original” meaning, that complaint didn’t quite match the mood in which I bought the blue nativity scene. We kept the Maccabees in Hannukah alongside our menorah and eight days of gifts; why did I feel I had to celebrate a Christ-less Christmas? My nostalgia-fueled holiday critique bypassed the issue of commercialism and went, instead, straight to questions of religious certainty and substance.

There it was on my dining room table, that seemingly innocuous symbol. “What a cute family!” my five-year-old daughter exclaimed as soon as she saw it, asking immediately that the family face her, and not her sister, as we sat down to eat. How could I explain that this wasn’t just any family; this was Jesus and his family?

That night, we lit candles for Hannukah; we lit a tea light in the nativity scene. I stumbled through an explanation that Christmas­­­­––in addition to being a time of warmth and light and family closeness in the dark time of year, not to mention the gift-giving that was paramount in my daughters’ minds––was also the celebration of the birth of the little baby in that scene right there, and that Christians believe this baby came to save the world.

My academic explanation didn’t last long with my five-year-old; she wanted to know what her parent believed. I wanted to know, too.

In trying out my childhood church again, I wanted to touch something holy as if it could be solid and certain. If I could welcome the baby Jesus onto my dining room table, surely there was room in my heart, mind, and body for one more layer of meaning?

I stuck with my childhood church tradition until Easter, feeling the familiar rituals of crossing myself, kneeling for confession, and taking Communion. The actions settled through my body like warm hot chocolate after a long time out in the snowy cold. By Easter, though, my mind had failed to catch up. Words about the “only son of God” stuck in my throat alongside unshed tears, and I found myself thinking about my daughter’s interest in the little family at the manger. Did it have to represent just that one particular family? Couldn’t God be found in more persons than just this one? Could I not also sing, in a riff on Leonard Cohen’s song “Who by Fire,” who in a manger; who in a refugee camp; who on a dusty plain, a humble home, an antiseptic hospital? Which flickering flame of life would provide hope when it was needed most?

Symbols hold not just one meaning, but many. They convey truth not because they are unequivocal, but because they’re multivalent, metaphorical. Wax melts when touched by a candle’s flame; it softens like a heart, and shifts.

***

Nostalgia looks back to a past supposedly more whole, more perfect, more full of promise than the present moment, but Advent, as a season of the church, looks forward in hope to the coming of a better day. What an irony that we spend so much time dreaming of Christmases past and their possible perfections!

In the wrong hands, nostalgia can be dangerous. It gives a false picture of a past that never was. Jesus has never truly been the only reason for the season, any more than America once was greater than it is now. Most of our holiday nostalgia, thankfully, is no more dangerous than baby Jesus being forgotten in a coupon drawer, but nostalgia’s sticky emotional resonance can lead us away from the promises and challenges of the present into an unfounded feeling of what we might have lost. We fear we can’t live up to the past; we face depression, loneliness, and despair as we try to make the holidays shine ever more brightly.

Nostalgia’s illusion can make the holiday season more laden with difficult emotion than it needs to be. Memory creates a powerful pull in that we think we should feel a certain feeling when the holidays roll round, but when we don’t, we assume, automatically, that we’re in the wrong. We assume we’ve fallen away from how things were, a how that must have been more certain, more solid, more joyous than we knew. The truth of both Christmas past and present may be closer, in fact, to the dull ache of difference, a thought can ease our way to holidays of the future. If we can let go of the idea of one single truth or one perfect past, perhaps we can find a little bit of Christmas peace.

In Winifred Gallagher’s Working on God, a memoir of exploring faith after years of leaving church deep in her own past, she interviews an Episcopal priest who was raised in the Salvation Army. “I don’t go back to the Salvation Army,” the priest says, “but I miss it terribly. There’s this sadness about not being there, because even the soap in the bathroom smells right!” It’s possible, the priest realizes, to find spiritual maturity in knowing when one needs to move beyond one’s nostalgic memories, even the memories that smell right, or that feel so familiar deep within the body. Advent challenges cultural Christians, post-Christians, and believers alike to embrace not old nostalgic memories, but new meanings, ones that bring hope for the future.

I sometimes still return to that same church, but I no longer expect it to feel the same as it once did. To miss a tradition doesn’t make it false, but missing it also doesn’t mean it holds the corner on truth, either. Truth, at least as far as memory and tradition are concerned, shines through when something solid softens, and becomes malleable.

Light flickers out through the stars cut in the sky of the nativity scene. Is this a light that shone for just that one holy season, or is it a light that shines when we need the reminder of hope the most? This time, I do not need one answer; the way the candle dances is enough.