It’s no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I wake up early. Always have. Since my late twenties, I’ve been rising before most people are even thinking about getting out of bed. And for the past few years, that means before 4 a.m.
I wake up. I read. I sit. I think. I write. It’s my favorite part of the day—the silence, the dark, the ritual of becoming conscious while the world still sleeps. But beginning November 1st, that sacred rhythm gets an upgrade. Because that’s when the tree goes up.
Growing up, there were unspoken but firmly held holiday rules. One of them: no Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving. I’m still not sure why this rule existed—it wasn’t religious, really, just culturally accepted. Everyone I knew seemed to follow it. No tree before the turkey.
That rule may have held for the first few years of our marriage (truthfully, I don’t remember), but somewhere over the last 25 years, the timeline began to shift. Slowly, year by year, the tree crept earlier. And it lingered longer.
We are now, unapologetically, a November 1st–February 1st tree family. And during those months, my mornings move from great to magic.
The rest of the year, I walk into a dark house. I flip on the “Aion Bookstore” sign—rescued from a 1980s CU bookstore—and begin the day. But during the tree months? I walk in and see light.
A glowing tree, quietly sparkling in the corner. Ornaments collected from around the world. Tiny mementos of trips, memories, moments. Jettie’s handmade “art” pieces from age 2, 3, 4—glittery time capsules dangling between hand-blown glass and felt animals.
Each morning I stop, just for a second, on my way to the coffee pot. I take it in. I let the warmth fill me. And every single morning, without fail, I smile.
Maybe the tree means something older than tradition. Maybe it’s a symbol that transcends Christianity or any religion at all. A lit tree in winter—maybe it satisfies some primal part of us that needs reassurance as the darkness stretches and the cold creeps in. A subconscious hearth-fire.
Or maybe I just really like twinkling lights.
Either way, it works.
So if you’re someone who still waits until December to put your tree up—let me offer a gentle invitation: Start earlier. Leave it up longer.
There’s no time limit on twinkling joy.