Another very early morning. I finished writing the Xandra Claus letters that I write to my grandchildren each year. I enjoy making up little adventures for the snow cats and reindeer. It’s sort of like writing the yearly Christmas letter, except that I can invent a world where everyone is always happy and good, where the adventures and misadventures always end well.
Some years those letters folded inside the Christmas cards make me feel so envious. Filled with exciting travel adventures, family celebrations, promotions, achievements, they show pictures of families that walk off with every medal and honour. Where are the letters from the rest of the poor common people who make up the majority of the world?
At times I feel like writing about all the failures and frustrations our family has experienced in the course of the year. Just that. But of course I don’t. It isn’t what people want to hear in the deep darkness of winter, and I wouldn’t want to inflict all this on my friends and family either.
I think all families have their own share of suffering. These yearly epistles only reveal the high points, the evidence that they have made it through the darkness again and will live on, conquering the dragons and surviving the perils.