I Believe in Santa Claus: Part II (in response to Sheryl's comment)

The feeling of Santa Claus swiftly flying through the dark winter night, landing on my house while I was sleeping, and unloading his dark red sack on the living room floor that lay below my bedroom floorboards was just the surface of the magic. Something much bigger than me existed, much more magical than all the fairy tales I curled up with at night, something that balanced out the discovery of reality as I got older. Reality that included the parts of life that made my belly hurt when I thought of them: my grandfather shooting himself in the head when my dad was 16, my grandmother dying of colon cancer the same year Santa died too, learning that Tundra, my first Husky, was buried behind the veterinarian in Alabama where I spent my first three years. All in all, it was death that introduced me to reality, absolutes that couldn’t bring back my dad’s parents, or my fluffy Tundra whom I laid with everyday to watch Mister Rodgers. And at 9, I still wanted to hold on to that feeling Santa Claus provided, the same feeling I get walking into an ancient cathedral in Europe, its colossal pillars stretching up to the heavens with image after image of brown cherubs and saintly men, its smell of spiritual moments that still linger in the dark corners, hovering over the worn-in tiles below, smooth grooves revealing all those who graced that same floor, century after century. It was a feeling I came to connect between the child who believed whole-heartedly in Santa Claus and the young adult who traveled new worlds, establishing my own spirituality in those ancient standing cathedrals. I guess I could say for me, Santa Claus was the closest I came to believing in god. It offered the same notion; I wanted to have faith in something that made me want to be a better person, to know that there was magic in a world that cried and bled, a world where suicide, young tragic death, broken hearts, and chronic medical problems polluted my innocence and outlook.

Looking back on it now, maybe that was another reason I was so devastated that morning I doubted Santa Claus. And Mama’s incessant response “Do you think he’s real, honey?” had left it up to me. Did I have the confidence and self-security to let the strength of my own belief keep Santa alive? I think this past Christmas, as I sat with my family, under those same twinkling “Chrimma” lights and let the tingling sensation of champagne soothe the back of my mouth, I realized that I did. Because that room was full of something, and somewhere deep inside, I was thanking Santa Claus.