Growing up in London, our family Christmas tree stood quietly in the sitting room corner.
It was plastic and dark green, dusted in tinsel and glitter, crowned with a wobbly paper star. Tiny coloured bulbs twinkled through the window, visible from the street – enough to convince would-be burglars that someone was home.
When we arrived in Australia in 1987, everything about Christmas felt upside down: cicadas chirping outside, beetles zapping around the light bulbs before we got around to putting in flyscreens. In our new suburban street, most of our neighbours had real trees, purchased from garden nurseries or farms. Yet we held onto that plastic one.
To this day, my mother still unfurls it in her flat in the inner city, adorning it with the same old glittery balls and crumpled nativity cards.
The little things we do to mark festivities have been on my mind of late. Across Western Sydney, we’ve just seen entire streets glow for Diwali. From Glenwood to Nirimba Fields and Oran Park, neighbours gathered to admire spectacular displays illuminated across facades, gates, balconies and driveways. Residents danced, lit diyas and exchanged sweets. Campbelltown City Council even ran a community bus tour so everyone could share in the joy.
In just over a month, believe it or not, it will be time to start thinking about Christmas. This year, the City of Parramatta is holding a Christmas lights competition, with entries opening on November 27 and closing on December 10.
There will be separate contests across the five wards, with each winner receiving a $200 gift voucher, but of course, the real reward is the pride of participation.
It’s like a school Christmas-card colouring-in competition, except for adults – and whole families get to take part. Preparations, as any seasoned decorator knows, begin long in advance. Time to fire up those imaginations, rummage through the shed and clear the car for a trip to Bunnings.
In a changing society marked by growing loneliness and disconnection, a Christmas lights competition evokes tradition, continuity and hope.
Many of us remember stringing up lights as children or being driven around to see the best displays. One of my favourite Yuletide films back then was Home Alone, set in a wealthy suburb of Chicago. Eight-year-old Kevin, played by Macaulay Culkin, is accidentally left behind as his family flies to Paris. On screen, the mansions glow magnificently, automated lights synchronised to perfection. Yet despite the beauty, the tableau feels isolating. Behind those locked gates and snow-covered lawns, none of the neighbours even realises Kevin is still there.
Here in the suburbs of Parramatta, it’s different. Our lights invite connection. Families walk the streets on hot summer nights; parents hoist kids onto shoulders; nature strips are lined with Eskys, tables and folding chairs. It’s a shared DIY experience, not a cold performance behind closed doors.
There’s something universal about light. Across faiths and cultures we are drawn to illumination, from Diwali to Christmas, Hanukkah and Eid. The simple act of lighting up a home becomes a metaphor for lighting up ourselves. It’s an act of generosity, an invitation to the entire street. Far from underlining difference, it’s about belonging.
Every year, trains from the west pack with revellers heading to Vivid. Perhaps it’s time we thought of Christmas lights as the suburbs’ own version of Vivid – less commercial, more personal, born from the quiet creativity of friends and neighbours.
A few years ago, on Christmas Eve, I walked across the northern suburbs of Parramatta just to take it all in. As everything from nativity scenes to giant reindeer glowed in the dark, the streets were silent, families inside, kids making themselves scarce and pretending to sleep. The only movement came from cars driving to midnight mass.
There was something deeply moving. Close your eyes and you could be transported back thousands of years to Bethlehem itself.
Come December, cars will again line up in cul-de-sacs; Facebook pages and local mums’ groups will buzz with the best locations to visit. For a few weeks, the ordinary becomes extraordinary.
Wherever I’ve travelled – beaches, mountain lookouts, city hotel rooftops – I’ve been struck by how people gather to watch the sun go down. There’s something timeless about it, a quiet ritual of awe. Every sunset reminds us of our smallness in the cosmos. It’s the same at Christmas, with every festive light, strung carefully across a fence or eave.
We can’t control everything in this world. But we can still light up our humble patch – our front yard, our modest stretch of street. And if everyone did that, in every sense of the word, how different might the world be?
Alan is a journalist and communications specialist. He writes a weekly column for Parra News.