There’s nothing like Christmas in New York City. I’m not talking about the “Christmas season,” in terms of tourists and spectacle that descend on the city in a typical year. I’m happy to be without the gridlock and tourists clogging the sidewalks.
For me, Christmas Day in New York is one of the best days. Starting around mid-day on Christmas Eve, as the city powers down, a serene blanket of quiet falls over the city.
Christmas Day dawns in stillness. Everything slows down, nobody is rushing or racing.
People often comment that the city is “dead” on Christmas. But to me the stillness feels very alive.
There’s a palpable reverence in the air, an honoring of the sacredness of the day. People are more patient, more kind, compassionate.
There’s a remembering and witnessing of our common humanity.
The pause is a moment of rest and incubation; the silence is a a silence of honoring.
Early in the pandemic, I was describing New York to a friend and I observed that it felt like Christmas.
A space that draws out the best of us to birth our true potential.
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