Marble Pedestal: Christmas 

There is a moment in December — sometimes fleeting, sometimes hard-won — when the year exhales a sigh of relief with you.

In Edmonton, it often arrives under streetlights dusted with snow, when the city feels quieter than usual, and even the cold seems to hold still. It might come in the glow of Christmas lights along a residential street, or in the hush that follows the last carol on the radio. For me, that moment is what Christmas is really about: a rare, collective agreement to slow down.

As an international student from India, Christmas was not a season I grew up celebrating. December back home meant cooler evenings, pre-board exams arriving, and a calendar inching toward the new year. But here, Christmas is impossible to ignore — and slowly, impossible not to absorb. The season announces itself early, filling long, dark evenings with light and sound.

I love the small rituals. The way neighbourhoods soften under strings of lights that feel almost defiant against the winter. The optimistic untangling of extension cords. The smell of pine — real or artificial — drifting from apartment lobbies and student housing. For someone far from home, these simple details matter. They anchor you in a city that can feel overwhelming, especially when you’re still new to prairie winters.

Music does the rest. Christmas songs are unapologetically repetitive, and that’s part of their charm. You don’t listen to them for surprise; you listen for familiarity. For newcomers, that familiarity is learned rather than inherited. Over time, the songs become part of understanding Edmonton itself — playing in grocery stores, on random strangers’ stereos on transit rides, and in quiet apartments when the snow keeps you indoors.

Food, of course, carries memories too. The cookies that only appear once a year. Dinners shared with friends who are also far from home. Christmas meals in Edmonton are rarely perfect, but they’re rarely forgettable. For us as students, they’re often improvised — a potluck, a shared kitchen, a borrowed recipe — proof that tradition doesn’t need to be old to feel real.

But what I appreciate most about Christmas the most isn’t the spectacle — it’s the permission. Permission to slow down in a city that otherwise prides itself on resilience and movement. Permission to step out of the cold and linger indoors. Permission to be a little sentimental in a world that prefers practicality.

Even the quieter tales matter. A walk through a snow-covered neighbourhood when the streets are empty and the air feels sharper. The stillness that settles over the river valley. A book read slowly because winter has removed every excuse to rush.

Christmas doesn’t erase the hard things. It doesn’t make winters warmer, and it doesn’t cure homesickness. But it does offer a pause — a collective deep breath — and sometimes that’s enough. Enough to remember what rest feels like. Enough to feel connected, even far from where you started.

When the decorations come down and January returns with its familiar bite, that feeling fades. But for a few days each year, Christmas insists that slowing down isn’t a weakness. It’s attention.

And that, to me, feels like an unfamiliar yet comforting love.