It’s the most wonderful time of the year. Christmas is over. I always love it in November, even up to about December 15 or so. Then, ick. By early January I can’t stuff the Rubbermaid fast enough. And I’m reflecting on this tonight — by the fire in the livingroom, kneeling on my meditation bench with a glass of wine, pitching crumpled year-end newspaper wads and fist-fulls of balsam needles into the fire to watch them pop and roar. I always leave the tree up one last night after the decorations are off, with just the lights on it and all the presents ferreted away. It’s a final hurrah, and…