For decades now, the holiday season – in America, the weeks from Thanksgiving to Christmas – has become more a secular event than a religious or spiritual one.  "Shop 'til you drop" is December's motto.  Whatever time and energy is not spent shopping is devoted to preparing frantically for the holiday – or preparing for parties, going to parties, and recovering from parties.  Indeed, secularizing the season has become so routine that, in many circles, it is socially incorrect to refer to these events as "Christmas parties"; they must be called "holiday parties."  And retailers, eager to rake in cash from everyone regardless of religion or creed, do not have "Christmas sales" but "holiday sales."

Much hand-wringing has accompanied this trend, even among those who participate in it.  However, while the commercialization of Christmas may be more pronounced than ever, it is not as new as one may think.  Back in the early 1950s, my high school history teacher would launch an annual tirade every December about how we were "losing the true meaning of Christmas" by emphasizing materialism.  When students slipped Eartha Kitt's "Santa Baby" into the Christmas music that was played through the PA system at school, the principal went ballistic, not just because the lyrics were a tad risque (by the standards of 1953) but because it put the wrong spin on what Christmas was supposed to be all about.

While I am at least mildly annoyed that the marketing of Christmas begins earlier each year, I cannot get into a twit about how "commercial" the holidays have become.  Realistically, I must recognize that, in our capitalistic society, retailers depend mightily on Christmas sales.  I also believe that, in a democratic and heterogeneous culture, it is not such a bad thing to broaden the scope of the holidays so that non-Christians and nonbelievers can participate.  Most are, after all, fully aware of what Christians are celebrating, even if they do not subscribe to the faith.  The metamorphosis of Saint Nicholas into Santa Claus and all the other secular traditions that have become associated with Christmas need not, I believe, detract from its origins – nor have they.

What can be harmful, though, is the pace that we – believers and nonbelievers alike – require of ourselves as we prepare for the Big Day.  'Tis the season to be frantic.  December 25 becomes a deadline, and the days leading up to it contain little joy or serenity.  Worse yet, by having such high expectations and exerting so much effort to prepare for one day, we set ourselves up for depression and disappointment, both on the day itself and in the weeks that follow.  We need, more than ever during the holidays, to rein ourselves in and tell ourselves:  one day at a time.

I've been through at least four holiday phases in my lifetime.  The first was the childhood phase, where the focus was pretty much on Christmas Day itself, summed up in the sentence, "I can't wait for Christmas."  But wait I did, usually in joyful anticipation, with no responsibility but to be patient until it happened.  The second was the cynical phase of young adulthood, during which I was ambivalent about the holiday season – wanting to enjoy it but suffering from serious spiritual doubts.  (My emergence from that phase is described in my essay, Inner Sense.)  Somewhat overlapping that was a third phase, in which I had grasped, on my own terms, the spiritual essence of the season, but still lapsed occasionally into the frantic mode.  How would I ever get everything done by the deadline?  Each time I got delayed in a crowded store or otherwise fell "behind schedule," I felt some of my newfound joy in the holidays being sucked out of me.

Finally, and very gradually, I am entering a new phase in my approach to the holidays.  I am realizing that, as with much else in life, the answer lies in balance – and in accepting paradoxes.  As noted earlier, the season already contains both secular and religious or spiritual elements that seem to be contradictory but, when properly balanced, can paradoxically complement each other.  Similarly, Christmas needs to be regarded as both a special day and "just another day," so that I don't make more demands of it than it can deliver.  If I've drained the joy out of a few hours a day for a month leading up to the few hours of Christmas Day, my happiness ledger is so far in the deficit column that not even a perfect Christmas can balance the books.

None of this is easy, especially in a pressure-cooked society where most of the anxieties we experience are self-inflicted.  Like almost everyone else, I have a long list of holiday projects, and I've begun to measure how well I'm handling the holidays by how I react to the completion of each project.  If I'm finishing most of them with the thought, "Boy, I'm glad that's over," I'm in trouble.  If, on the other hand, I find myself saying, "Gee, that was fun," I'm in good shape.  Then even a really rotten Christmas can't spoil all the good times I had getting there.

I've also learned to apply to the holidays some of the same psychology that helped me when I worked in an office.  For much of my working life, I felt stressed out by the constant pressure of deadlines.  I seemed to be surrounded by people with what I call "the crisis mentality," who couldn't function unless every project was viewed as a life-and-death crisis.  I bought into this view – despite repeated evidence that nothing got done faster or better because of this manufactured urgency.  One day, I put a sign above my desk:  "How much does it really matter?"  Whenever anyone gave me an assignment with the stipulation that the fate of mankind rested on my completing it by a given hour, I looked at that sign.  It did not make me work any less diligently; rather, by putting the task into a broader perspective, my little reminder made me more efficient because I was less stressed.  I enjoyed my work more, and I even became somewhat easier to get along with.  If I treat the holidays with this "How much does it really matter?" attitude, stuff still gets done, and I feel better.  Surprisingly, people around me seem to behave better as well.

After all, the gifts of Christmas are supposed to be peace and good will.  I can't very well offer these gifts to others if I don't possess them within myself.