Behind the Puddle

Behind the Puddle | A Reflection on Authenticity, Permission, and the Life We’re Living

I would like to tell you that I waited until at least October 1st before my Christmas tree found its way into the corner of my room. But if we’re being honest, it had been there since September 22nd. The first day of autumn had barely arrived, and there I was, turning on the little white lights of a Christmas tree while the rest of the world was welcoming pumpkins, falling leaves, and everything that comes with the change of seasons.

I wasn’t trying to rush Christmas. Christmas itself doesn’t hold some extraordinary meaning for me that makes me anxious for its arrival. I simply love having my tree up, and as I began thinking about why, I realized there was a little more to this September decision than I had originally considered.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been someone who puts the Christmas tree up early. I honestly cannot remember a year in my adult life when that wasn’t the case. Somewhere along the way, after my children began having children of their own, I decided I should at least try to wait until after Tyler’s birthday on October 30th. It seemed like a reasonable compromise between my desire to have the tree up and the calendar’s insistence that Christmas was still quite a distance away.

But this year, I found myself wondering what exactly I was waiting for.

Was I waiting for permission from the calendar? Was I respecting a tradition that I didn’t necessarily feel connected to? Was it about what other people might think, the marketing of holidays, or some unwritten social agreement about when Christmas decorations become acceptable?

And perhaps the more important question was why any of those things mattered when the tree brought me so much peace.

A Little Light in the Corner

My tree is not particularly impressive by traditional Christmas decorating standards. It’s artificial, rather sparse, and completely undecorated. There are no ornaments carefully arranged among the branches, no ribbons, no coordinated colors, and no elaborate theme connecting it to the rest of the room.

I have never considered myself particularly gifted when it comes to decorating. In fact, I have a remarkable ability to admire the creative talents of other people while questioning my own. I can appreciate an elaborate holiday display, but that doesn’t mean I need one in my own home.

And as far as having a real tree or keeping a beautiful living plant in its place, we can probably eliminate that possibility immediately. I have earned something of a reputation as a hospice for houseplants. Despite my best intentions, living greenery seems to arrive in my care with a rather uncertain future.

My little artificial tree, on the other hand, asks very little of me.

It has soft white lights, the kind I’ve always preferred over colorful displays or constantly changing patterns. For years, I was rather particular about those lights remaining steady. I didn’t want blinking, chasing, or anything that brought unnecessary movement into a space where I was looking for quiet.

But this tree has a few lights that twinkle by design. Not all of them, and not in any particular rhythm that demands attention. Every so often, a little light gently changes, creating just enough movement to notice without disturbing the stillness.

I’ve discovered that I rather like that.

There is something calming about sitting in a darkened room while the tree quietly glows in the corner. The world outside can be busy, noisy, complicated, and demanding, but those little white lights don’t ask me to accomplish anything. They don’t require a conversation, a decision, or an explanation.

They simply exist, and for a little while, I can do the same.

The Guiding Tree

Over the years, we’ve come to refer to this tree as the Guiding Tree, and the space around it as our Guiding Corner. It has become part of a collection of photographs, meaningful objects, and everyday reminders of the people who have shared their lives with ours. Some of those people are still here, while others are present through the memories, stories, and contributions they left behind.

That has always been important to me.

Long before Behind the Puddle or Planning Forward existed, I was creating family calendars in the 1990s, putting together family cookbooks, and making birthday boards. Those projects weren’t simply about keeping track of dates or collecting recipes. They were ways of recognizing the people who belonged to our family, including those whose lives made the generations that followed possible.

I wanted their names remembered, their photographs included, and their contributions recognized. I wanted the people who were here today to have a connection to the people who came before them. I wanted those stories to remain part of our everyday lives rather than something we only thought about on anniversaries or special occasions.

I still want those things.

I don’t believe I make many decisions without considering, in some way, the people whose names, stories, and memories I carry with me. They helped shape my understanding of the world, my values, and the person I have become. Some taught me through kindness, generosity, and love, while others taught me through experiences that helped me recognize the kind of person I did not want to be.

Everyone leaves a lesson, even when it isn’t the lesson they intended to teach.

The Guiding Tree will always be connected to those people. Its place in my home is part of a much larger story of belonging, remembrance, and continuity. But this year, I’ve begun to realize that it can represent all of those things and still be something I have simply because I enjoy it.

Those meanings don’t have to compete with one another.

Giving Myself the Same Grace

One of the things I’ve noticed about myself through the seasons behind the puddle is how easily I can accept the world around me for what it is.

I don’t need to know the exact species of every little brown bird that visits the patio. I don’t need the herons to do something remarkable every time they appear, or the rabbits to behave in a particular way to make their visits worthwhile. A fallen branch can become a resting place, a shallow puddle can support an entire community of wildlife, and an ordinary afternoon can be meaningful without anything extraordinary happening.

I can appreciate those things without needing to improve them.

Yet I don’t always offer myself that same understanding.

I can look at my undecorated tree and immediately explain that I’m not a very good decorator. I can question whether it’s too early, whether it should have ornaments, or whether someone else might think it’s strange that I have a Christmas tree glowing in the corner while autumn has barely begun.

It’s interesting how quickly we can find reasons to defend something that hasn’t caused anyone any harm.

The tree doesn’t need to be decorated to be beautiful to me. It doesn’t need to meet someone else’s expectations of what a Christmas tree should look like, and it certainly doesn’t need to wait for an officially acceptable date on the calendar.

Maybe the same can be said for some of the choices we make in our lives.

We spend so much time considering what we should do, when we should do it, and how our decisions might be received by other people. Sometimes those considerations are necessary because our choices affect the people around us. But sometimes we are negotiating with expectations that don’t actually serve anyone, including ourselves.

And sometimes the thing we are denying ourselves is as ordinary as a little joy.

What If I Don’t Die?

Much of my work through Planning Forward has involved conversations about mortality, the uncertainty of life, and what we hope to leave behind. I believe those conversations are important, and I have spent a great deal of time considering what my own life will mean to the people who remain after I am gone.

But lately, I’ve been finding myself asking a different question.

What if I don’t die?

Of course, I understand that eventually I will. That isn’t the question I’m asking. What I mean is, what if I have more time than I imagined? What if there are many more autumns, more winters, more ordinary Tuesday afternoons, and more evenings when the world becomes quiet?

What am I doing with the life that is still here?

Am I living authentically, or am I spending too much of that life trying to meet expectations that don’t necessarily reflect who I am? Am I allowing myself to experience the things that bring me peace, or am I waiting for some future occasion when enjoying them will feel more appropriate?

I’ve spent years thinking about what I might leave behind. Perhaps it is time to give equal consideration to what I am choosing to live with while I am still here.

That doesn’t mean abandoning responsibility, forgetting the people who shaped me, or deciding that my own wishes should always come before the needs of others. It means recognizing that my own experience of living deserves consideration, too.

There is a difference between preparing for the end of our lives and treating the life we have today as though it is merely the waiting period.

I don’t want to spend whatever time remains waiting for permission to be myself.

Finding My Way Forward

When I look back over these last seasons, I can see that something has been changing.

Behind the Puddle began as a place to notice and share the ordinary lives happening just beyond our patio. Over time, those observations have encouraged me to look a little more closely at my own life. I’ve been thinking about what matters, what has changed, what I’ve accepted, and what I might have been holding onto simply because it was familiar.

I’ve also been learning that authenticity isn’t necessarily about becoming someone new.

Sometimes it is about recognizing the parts of ourselves that have been there all along and allowing them to have a little more room. Sometimes it means discovering that something we once believed was important no longer carries the same weight. And sometimes it means holding onto something we’ve always loved without feeling the need to justify it.

I still love my family calendars, the stories of people who came before me, and the little objects that remind me of their presence. I still believe that remembering our history helps us understand who we are. I still value the conversations, relationships, and ordinary experiences that connect one generation to another.

But I’m also beginning to recognize that I don’t need every moment of enjoyment to serve a greater purpose.

The soft lights in my corner don’t have to teach a lesson, preserve a memory, or represent something profound every evening. They can do all of those things when the meaning is there, but they can also simply make me happy.

And that should be enough.

A Puddle Pause

I wonder how many of us have something in our lives that we enjoy but have placed behind an unnecessary condition.

Something we’re saving for the right season, the right occasion, the right circumstances, or the day when we finally feel comfortable allowing ourselves to have it. Something harmless that brings us joy, yet somehow still comes with an explanation or an apology.

Maybe it’s a Christmas tree in September. Maybe it’s using the good dishes on an ordinary Wednesday, wearing something that makes us happy even when we’re not going anywhere special, or enjoying a tradition in a way that looks nothing like the way someone else celebrates it.

What would happen if we allowed ourselves a little more of that joy without requiring it to justify its place in our lives?

I don’t know exactly how long my tree will remain in the corner this year. It might stay through Christmas, well into January, or until some perfectly ordinary afternoon when I decide it’s time to put it away.

I do know that I don’t regret putting it up on September 22nd.

The people who shaped my life will always have a place in that corner, just as they have a place in the person I am today. Their memories and lessons will continue to accompany me as I figure out what moving forward looks like. But somewhere among those stories, I am learning to make a little more room for myself.

Perhaps that’s one of the things these last seasons have been teaching me. I don’t have to wait until my life is different, until the calendar says it’s time, or until I can explain my choices in a way that makes sense to everyone else.

I can simply enjoy the life that is here.

And apparently, the person I authentically am puts her Christmas tree up on the first day of autumn, leaves it completely undecorated, and will probably keep it up far longer than anyone considers reasonable.

I’m beginning to think I like her just the way she is.