Week One: The Stories We Inherit

Where memory meets mistletoe...we begin with story.

Hello friends!

I want to begin this month by sharing some of my own memories - simple childhood moments that have stayed bright inside me for decades. Only now am I beginning to understand just how much meaning these memories hold.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

My Childhood Story: The Christmas Glow at Grandma’s

When I think back to the Christmases of my childhood, my mind always returns to my grandmother’s house - a place where everything seemed to shimmer just a little brighter.

I remember the tree first. Not just the lights, but the tin reflectors behind them - bright little stars catching each bulb’s glow and scattering it softly across the branches. Even then, I was drawn to light, color, and handmade magic.

On the front window ledge stood an electric candelabra: white candles with red tips glowing warmly through winter evenings. I understand now that this gentle glow mirrors older traditions - windows lit to welcome travelers home, a symbol of hospitality passed down through generations.

And then there was the tiered end table that transformed every December. Grandma laid down soft cotton batting as snow and placed small, glitter-covered houses and a church on top. It became a tiny sacred space - a winter village for my imagination. Story, wonder, and tiny rituals of beauty… all threads of a lineage I didn’t yet know I carried.

I remember the year Chatty Cathy arrived - a doll that spoke. A small nudge, perhaps, toward the voice and storytelling that would eventually become part of my life.

Only now can I see how these moments weren’t random.
They were early whispers of my heritage -
a love of light,
the value of welcome… feeling welcome and extending that to others,
the magic in handmade beauty,
the instinct to create small, safe worlds and sacred spaces,
and the storyteller’s thread woven through me from the beginning.

This month, we begin by listening for those memories that you carry within and which still glow.

A Mistletoe Memory - and the Story Behind It

And of course, I can’t forget the mistletoe.

In my mother’s home, the faux mistletoe hung just inside the front door, and anyone entering - family or guest - couldn’t escape a kiss beneath its green and white clusters and the slightly squished bow that came from sitting in the box all year. It was a small moment of joy, welcome, and connection that still makes me smile.

What I didn’t know then was how ancient this little ritual truly is - how many cultures touched it, blessed it, and carried it forward before it ever reached our doorway.

Mistletoe has a long, wandering lineage, which I found so fascinating, I’d like to share it with you.

Celtic Roots - A Sacred Winter Lifeline

Among the ancient Celts and Druids, mistletoe was seen as a life-bringer in the darkest months.

It stayed green when everything else died back.
It symbolized protection, blessing, and peace.
It held the promise of life in winter - a quiet form of hope.

While the Celts didn’t kiss beneath it the way we do today, they planted the seeds of its meaning: union, blessing, and connection.

Norse Myth - Love Restored and Peace Made Eternal

A beloved Norse story tells of Baldur, the god of light, who was killed by a dart of mistletoe. His mother Frigg - goddess of love - wept until her tears brought him back to life. In gratitude, she blessed mistletoe and vowed to kiss anyone who passed beneath it.

This myth transformed mistletoe from a symbol of loss into one of love restored.

Victorian England - Where Ritual Became Holiday Tradition

Centuries later, English households hung mistletoe in kitchens and doorways.
Young women were kissed for luck.
A berry was plucked for each kiss until the stem was bare.

Victorian families loved rituals and symbolism, and they carried this one proudly into Christmas celebrations - eventually spreading it across Europe and North America.

A Heritage Mosaic

So kissing under the mistletoe isn’t just a cute holiday custom; it’s a mosaic of:

• Celtic reverence for winter blessings

• Norse mythology of love and forgiveness

• English traditions of welcome and courtship

• And the simple human desire to share affection in the darkest, coldest time of year

Knowing all this, I love the memory from my mother’s doorway even more.
A faux sprig, hung with love.
A kiss for everyone who entered.
A tiny, joyful act that carried centuries of meaning without anyone having to explain it.

What Our Memories Want Us to Notice

This is often how heritage speaks - not through documents or family trees, but through the small, sensory moments that stay with us. The glow of a light. The scent of something baking. A ritual someone repeated year after year. These tiny details ask us to pause and notice what they carried: comfort, belonging, beauty, imagination, welcome.

Our memories don’t return by accident.
They rise because they are holding something - a value, a feeling, a way of being, that shaped us long before we had words for it.

Your memory will do the same.
Let it show you what mattered then and what still matters now.

Reflection Ritual

Find a cozy corner that invites peace and comfort.
Bring your journal with you.
Settle in.

Let’s begin in stillness.
Take three small breaths, slow and steady, and whisper softly to yourself:

“I am here.”

Light a candle - a tiny flame to honour the glow of memory.

When you’re ready, open your journal and gently explore:

What childhood detail - an object, a light, a scent, or a small ritual - still glows inside me? And what thread of heritage might it be carrying?

Let whatever rises be simple.
Let it be true.
Let it come in its own way.

Creative Invitation

Write your memory as a small story - just one paragraph - and give it a title.

This isn’t about perfection.
It’s about beginning a quiet conversation with where you come from.

Community Connection

Share a one-line description that captures the essence of your memory.
Sometimes a single detail says everything.

Next week we’ll explore objects that hold memory - the small things that have quietly carried our stories forward.