Holiday break: Time for some light joy

This is the last post before a break for the holiday season.

I had  two upscale restaurant lunches last week, as les fêtes kick off here. One was with a group of seven women at a large upscale restaurant; the other was with one friend at a cozy neighbourhood buvette. Could not be more different.

The Fancy Place was jammed, the waiters mustered a clipped politesse and the kitchen cooked fish perfectly, but garnished the plates with two miniscule, steamed broccoli florets. Those florets were emblematic:who summons joy with broccoli? Leaving with one of the group, herself a chef, we noticed neither the staff nor guests were smiling.

Fancy restaurant, muted joy 

The servers, run off their feet, seemed to be praying not for peace on Earth but for no substitutions; the hostesses didn't make eye contact. I wondered why the patrons looked so glum, too. My chef friend said, "This place is full of women who don't like to eat. They are angry because they're supposed to." I had another theory: perhaps they were colleagues 'treated' to an annual long lunch, while a mountain of work awaited.

The Bistro was busy, but the vibe was of bustling good will. "Which sauce?", the server asked and when Claire hesitated, he said, "I'll bring you both!" At a nearby table, three women slid their desserts into the centre for shared sampling, and what might have been a father and his adult son fell silent only for a moment, when their matching burgers appeared.

Bistro: Joy served and shared

I thought about bringing joy. Not feeling joy, but carrying it into one's community like a Quatre-Quarts loaf in gift bag—because joy generates life force. You can feel it in the moment when the crowd buzzes before the curtain lifts at a theatre; a dinner guest exclaims "Aaaah!" as her plate is set down. Steve hired a group of carol-singers as a treat for his neighbours and suddenly the whole block is singing along.

The deepest level of joy is the rare state of rapture, a thrilling yet humbling emotion; it may arrive at a specific event, such as your first glimpse of your child's face, or in an unanticipated moment, perhaps in contact with the majesty of nature or the power of art.

But I'm thinking now of the season's light joy, a pleasant contentment that, even though predictable as poinsettias, delivers. (A friend tells that she settles in with a throw and hot cider, primed for a Hallmark holiday films' guaranteed oxytocin burst.)

That's why I prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day: that frisson of anticipation. Since childhood, when I knew that my mother would drop a multi-tiered box of Russell Stover chocolates on the sideboard first thing the next morning (and we could have one anytime we wanted), I've found anticipation its own genre of joy.

Light joy is more precious to me than what's in boxes. I enter my local bakery; "Blue Christmas" is playing. The man behind the counter starts singing along, "And when those blue snowflakes start fallin', that's when those blue memories start callin'...." and I join him.

The teenaged helper says, "Who's this?" and I reply, "That's The King". "King who?" he asks, and the older man and I crack up. He offers a chocolate-dipped madeleine.  "Thankyuh, thankyuh verrah much", I tell him, in my best Elvisian accent.

Outside, a puppy makes a new friend: peace on earth, goodwill to dogs.

I wish you every bright and comforting moment of joy, as we emerge from the winter solstice to move  slowly toward the light. May you bring and find joy in the coming year.

The Passage will re-open on January 6, 2026.