Christmas Day is here.

You might find it odd, unsettling even, that today's warm wishes come from someone named Rosenblum instead of, say, Rudolph. But the powers that be know of my love for Christmas. It's the kind of love cultivated over decades as a respectful observer of its magic and music and spectacular lights. It's a special kind of love that can only be experienced by one who has never known the indignity of, say, being a tinsel layer married to a tinsel clumper. One who has never had to debate pine or Fraser fir, my parents' house or yours, or "Do we really have to invite Mom's new boyfriend to Christmas dinner?" when you know, of course, that you do. And I've never stood at a returns desk at 7 a.m. on Dec. 26.

My Christmas is another experience entirely, but I think that what I've learned might be useful to all of us. At any rate, in the spirit of goodwill and all that jazz, I hope you'll allow me to give it a go.

What I remember most about the Christmases of my childhood was the quiet. I would step outside my house in the early morning, snow crunching under my boots, the air crisp and invigorating, the New Mexico sky as big as eternity, and the world was mine. All mine. If my little Jewish heart sped up as I saw the discarded wrapping paper and empty boxes piling up in front of my neighbors' houses (she got a stereo system?!), I think I knew, even then, that a great gift was being handed to me, as well. The world as I knew it had stopped. I could stop, too.

There was no one to visit. Back then, families stayed home in their jammies all day. No homework, no chores. Nothing more compelling to do than breathe.

Stop. Hear the quiet. Breathe.

We've lost that. All of us. Blame it on heart-warming cross-cultural outreach: My family now overdoes Hanukkah to an obscene degree. You wrap up the Christmas ham and join us at the Cineplex. Or blame it on Google, or cell phones or after-Christmas sales that start on Christmas Day. But that's too easy. I think it's something else.

Stopping can be so scary. Because it means we have to hurt. It means looking around our holiday table for the missing faces we loved dearly, lost to disease or violence, or cut out due to estrangement. If we are really brave, it means looking at those seated right next to us who now seem like strangers.

And yet, here we gather, year after year, so hopeful that we will finally understand and be understood. How do we get back to each other?

That little girl, it seems, knew. Stopping allows us to turn, see the world from a different vantage point. Stopping allows us to remember and, possibly even, forgive.

Maybe not this year. Maybe next. And that will be all right. Still, it's never too early to start practicing. So in the spirit of goodwill:

Stop. Hear the quiet. Breathe.