I love my Christmas tree.
Though my last post may have been a bit of a call toward minimalism, my Christmas tree is anything but that. My tree nearly touches my ceiling and every branch is laden with an ornament. And every year I must make difficult decisions regarding which ornaments will not fit on the tree.
This year several people came into my home and commented, “Oh, cool retro tree,” or “very 70’s.” And no offense to anyone alive in the 70’s, but I’ve been quite taken aback at these comments every time.
Then I remember that it is trendy to have matching ornaments that fit a particular aesthetic and color scheme. This is a trend that I cannot ever imagine embracing, as I have dedicated all 30 years of my life to collecting Christmas ornaments.
From the time I was born, my mom and grandmother began collecting Christmas ornaments for me, so that whenever I left the house I would have something to decorate with. I am infinitely grateful to them for that.
Every year they would gift me with ornaments that I would put in my ornament box. By 5th grade I had enough for my own tree, covered in ornaments and giant bubble lights. With every passing year the ornament exchange would continue. Every place I go I get an ornament for myself, and of course one for my mom and my granny. There is noticeable tension if someone goes somewhere and doesn’t get ornaments for everyone.
Because my Christmas tree is not just an aesthetic or a decorative piece. It’s a living memoir.
From where I sit on my couch I can see so many stories lit up in the white lights. I see the hand-painted one from Luxembourg that I carried in my hand on my way back from Mozambique. I see my Flint colleagues with photoshopped Santa hats. I see my trip to the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. I see a 3rd grade trip to Graceland reflecting like a disco ball. I see Jordanian nomads weaving in a UN-tarp tent. I see the time I was lost in Zanzibar. I see family trips to South Africa, Arizona, North Carolina, and Gulf Shores. I see my first job. A first date. My university. The creepy boy in striped pajamas that my granny gave me, which I spent several years unsuccessfully trying to give back.
It is a bit of an altar in my world, a collection of stones gathered along the way. It is a reminder of where we have been, who we are, a celebration of what is to come. And it’s the place where I offer all of my gifts.
And so it lingers past the 25th, through New Years, and until….we’ll see when I have time to take it down.
I am not generally a fan of knick-knacks that fill space for no reason, but I do love a thing that tells a story. I love to fill my space with art that inspires our futures, plants that grow alongside us, and little strange treasures that remind us of where we’ve been.
As I do with every new year, I just went through my space to clean it out, filling bags of things to throw away and give away. I’m always finding more things that I do not want, things I have in excess, things I wasted money on.
But it is fun to discern which things I want to keep, which things remind me of certain times and places, and which things spark joy. My favorite thing that I got this year was an ujamaa statue.
As long as I have known about them, I have been fascinated by these traditional statues, some of which are very small and some which are as large as trees. Big trees.
The ujamaa is traditionally carved by the Makonde people who live in northern Mozambique and southern Tanzania. These statues depict people climbing on top of one another and holding on to one another, symbolizing the way that community members are dependent upon one another across space and time.
Mine is sitting on my mantel across from my desk and I love glancing up at it and remembering why I do the work I do.
It reminds me of the carver in Tanzania who made it, a man with remarkable talent living in a place that is named on very few maps, just looking for a way to translate his craft into living well for his family.
It reminds me of the communities that I work with who are so interdependent with one another, so acutely aware of how reliant we are on one another and those who came before us.
It reminds me of the world that I want to live in, one where we are lifting one another up, one where our roots are intertwined and nourishing a tree of life.
I’m collaborating with a Kenyan organization to launch a girls’ mentoring program in an area that has one of the highest teen pregnancy rates in the region. So many girls are selling their bodies to get by, so many getting pregnant and being forced to drop out of school, so many trying to raise small children without a partner or job skills.
And so we ask — how will we make this work? Every time the answer is, “Well, we have to empower more people.”
Our plan that originally focused on 15 girls has grown to include more girls who are in boarding schools. Our program has integrated teachers, public health officials, community leaders, and church leaders — because without their buy-in the program will not be successful. We’re already planning for a program expansion to include an entrepreneurship program for the girls’ mothers, because if the mothers are not empowered they won’t support their daughters taking a different path, and they won’t be able to finance things the girls have been getting through darker means.
And there’s a need to empower fathers so that they are able to earn more money and be more involved in their daughters’ lives. There’s a need to educate boys so that they will start respecting their female classmates and taking responsibility for their children.
Because it’s not just about empowering a few girls. It’s about lifting up a whole community.
When the plan gets wider and wider I wonder, “How will we do all of this? How will we reach all these people? How will we pay for all of this?”
And I look up at the ujamaa. We’ll do it together. We’ll lift everyone together. We’ll plan it together. We’ll do the work together. We’ll pay for it together. And we’ll make the world a little bit better together.
That’s the only way it’s possible. And together so much is possible.
My Christmas tree is a reminder of so many people and places that have brought me where I am. Eventually I’ll take it down and be a little sad at the loss of this monument to so many stories of my life.
But I’ll still have my plants, a bizarre painting of the prophet Ezekiel, and the ujamma. The little amulets of hope.
As you’re organizing in this season, pay attention to the things that bring you joy. Surround yourself with the things that remind you that there is good in the world and possibility for beauty everywhere. Get a little plant for your desk. Get a little artwork for your home office. Get a little something that reminds you of the big and beautiful world that is beyond your computer. Add a little joy to your home, even if your roommate keeps casually hinting that Christmas is over and you should think about maybe packing up your ornaments.
They can stay up just a little bit longer. They’re helping me change the world.
Or, at least my world.
If you’d like to be part of the community making impossible work possible, click here to learn more about what I do at Flint Global. For more information or to set up a meeting you can email me at jessicamarkwood@flintglobal.org .