December ushers in the season of celebrations, a time to enjoy the memories of the old year even as our thoughts turn toward dreams about the new. It is a time to gather with friends and family, staving off the inevitable chill of winter with parties by the fire. But, while December seems a cheery month to many of us, it must have been a difficult time for Cinderella, the heartbroken child who lost her mother and was held at arm's length from her new step-mother's family.
Cold and alone by the kitchen hearth, Cinderella would have been forced to serve the holiday dinner rather than invited to share it, but, since all fairy tale protagonists are survivors, I like to think she took comfort in the little celebrations that the season has to offer, marveling at the patterns of frost left on the windowpane or taking joy in sharing her extra crumbs with the little mice who sheltered from the cold in the walls of her home. Sometimes these little, unexpected celebrations are the ones which capture the true meaning of the season, and in marking them, Cinderella may have found far more happiness than her step-sisters would find in the pile of presents that no doubt graced their Christmas tree.
My husband and I try to enjoy the little things throughout the year, but no ritual we have is more enchanting than our annual celebration of the season's first snow. I have always loved the quiet beauty of snow, the way its icy crystals transform the landscape as they flutter down from the skies. When the weather turns frosty, my husband chills a bottle of champagne, and when the first flakes begin to dance, he pops the cork, letting the bubbling liquid spill over the tops of our glasses. We sit together by the window, watching Mother Nature's brilliant show, forgetting our worries and taking comfort in the warmth of each other's love.
My favorite part about celebrating the season's first snow is its unpredictability. It may snow in the morning (perfect timing for mimosas), or it may snow on a Tuesday afternoon. To take part in our "First Snow" ritual, we must be willing to drop our plans and be present in the moment, and we must be willing to accept the imperfection of that moment, letting a mundane evening be transformed into a cherished memory as surely as Cinderella's rags are transformed into a beautiful gown.
Cinderella's stepmother banned her from attending the kingdom's lavish parties and balls, but that doesn't mean she stopped Cinderella from taking part in the magic that the dark season has to offer. Cinderella may have found joy in the crackling of the fire or the lilt of winter birdsong. She may have marked the sweet taste and crunch of a late-season apple or sighed in contentment as she wrapped her hands around a warm mug of cocoa.
Anything can be a celebration if we take the time to add a little magic, and maybe a glass or two of champagne.
Kelly Jarvis works as the Assistant Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine where she writes stories, poems, essays, book reviews, and interviews. Her poetry has also been featured or is forthcoming in Blue Heron Review, Mermaids Monthly, Eternal Haunted Summer, Forget Me Not Press, The Magic of Us, A Moon of One’s Own, Baseball Bard, and Corvid Queen. Her short fiction has appeared in The Chamber Magazine and the World Weaver Press Anthology Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. You can connect with her on Facebook (Kelly Jarvis, Author) or Instagram (@kellyjarviswriter) or find her at https://kellyjarviswriter.com/