Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved Christmas so very much; she trusted in magic, in the spirits, in enchanted woods and its creatures. The years piled up, like snow does when it falls overnight, however she never quite lost her sense of wonder.
If someone had told Christmas enthusiast, perennially overly excited six-year-old me that one day I’d be sitting here, interviewing Santa Claus in Rovaniemi, I wouldn’t have believed them. And yet, here I am.
The gates of fairy tales
I don’t know about you, but I’ve walked the trails of folktales a thousand times, not only curled up between the pages of a book, but also venturing out into the real world, travelling to places and listening to the legends of its people, beliefs and deities.
And before I could travel or speak other languages, before the internet, I relied on one of the most powerful highways accessible to all humans: imagination.
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Clement Clarke Moore
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there,…
I travelled by means of fables, illustrations, newspaper clippings and bedtime stories. And one in particular could keep me glued to the steering wheel of a sleigh for hours on end.
It was the story of Santa Claus.
And so it begins…
If there is one place where the line between reality and fairy tale blurs, it is right here in Rovaniemi, on the edge of Sápmi. At the arctic circle, land and lakes freeze, the air turns sharp and crisp, while the nights are blanketed by the snowy silence of the north.
Sápmi is the original name for what many people today call Lapland, a territory that stretches across the northern reaches of Finland, Norway, Sweden, and Russia’s Kola Peninsula.
And here in Finland, where the twilight lingers and shadows play across the snow, legends of mystical beings and gift-bringers from the cold tickle the imagination of children of all ages.
It feels as though, at any moment, those stories might spring to life, and sure enough, the path ahead leads us straight into their world, no longer lore but a place you can walk through: welcome to Santa Claus Office.
We pass through a dimly lit corridor filled with packages, elves, and letters. Wind hums in the distance, bells trill gently, and the path winds through nooks, globes, and tiny elven worlds.
Then we are on the other side, and just before we climb a flight of stairs, the space opens up in front of a huge time machine.
It only works on Christmas night, or so I’ve heard.
We’re soon upstairs, and after a handful of steps we reach an open wooden door: now a red stanchion rope is the only thing left between me and Santa Claus’s actual headquarters. Upon entering, we are greeted by the kindest smile: sitting on an old wooden and crimson velvet chair is a gentleman dressed in red, with a benevolent gaze and a long snow-coloured beard.
It is indeed him, Father Christmas, no doubt about it.
A bookshelf on his left, a chest full of letters on his right, placed next to a fireplace decorated with trinkets, buddhas, gnomes, and sacred symbols, gifts from all over the world.
I am officially in Santa’s room and, once again, the child in me is silently shrieking with joy.
The origin of Santa Claus
It began with a winter’s whisper, and a man who would become a legend. He was born under the warm sun of Anatolia, or in the boreal forests of the taiga. He was a bishop, a mystical spirit, a toymaker, a mortal raised by immortals. His home is in Finland, Sweden, Norway, but also in the mountains of Spain, at the north pole, and in Greenland.
According to Finnish folklore his home is in the great fell of Korvatunturi, the Ear Mountain at the border with Russia, a private place that no one can find, while his office is here in Rovaniemi.
Now, it goes without saying, this was the first thing I asked, and he had this to say:
“It’s funny, people discussing where I live, where I come from, where I was born. I find it endearing to be claimed by so many places, and I am proud, because I feel at home anywhere I can meet friends of Christmas, of tales and dreams.”
He chuckled softly when I inquired about his age:
“My reindeer driving license says I was born a long time ago,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Older than the forest, a little younger than the mountains — somewhere in between. So old, in fact, that I allow myself a piece of birthday cake every single day.” Yet as he spoke, he looked nothing like an old man. His voice was warm, his laughter round and boyish. “I feel like a little child,” he added, and I believed him.
Where art thou, Yuletide?
We spent hours talking at length, we discussed the meaning of Christmas in the world of yesterday and in the one of today, commenting on how pagan, religious, and contemporary traditions have coexisted, opposed each other, danced and mingled, to then merge into the story of this festivity.
I asked whether he thought his role had changed over time, given the centuries of shifting traditions. He shook his head gently. Christmas, he reminded me, is far older than him. Its roots reach back to the winter solstice, to rituals of light in the darkness that humanity has always honoured.
In its essence, he said, this season is about the quiet work of goodwill — helping where we can, forgiving when we can’t, and offering to ourselves the same gentleness we reserve for others.
“When it comes to the core values, sharing, caring, togetherness, then the deep meaning of Christmas hasn’t changed much over the millennia. That’s why I’m not worried about its future.”
On the bank of the river Christmas
I was sitting next to him, taking notes on a small pad, Jyl wandered around the room taking a few photos while listening attentively, and it didn’t matter that the bench I was sitting on was too small for my height, I didn’t even notice the clock going around the same spot a couple of times, I was in it knee-deep.
Santa was speaking of how the traditions around Midwinter span far and wide in space and time, gathering tales and building trails along the way. He compared the story of Christmas to a creek: ever-moving, never fixed, and always carrying new pieces into the stream.
Once the winter solstice, then a celebration of passage, of light and generosity; over the centuries the enchanted river has gathered new tributaries: reindeer learned to fly, Mrs. Claus appeared at his side, elves took up workbenches in the North. None of these were there at the beginning. They drifted in, settled, and became part of the lore.
“You can pick the parts that speak to you, there’s no rulebook, no council dictating what this holiday should look like,” he said. “For some, it’s a religious holiday. For others, a time to spend with family or to give thoughtful gifts. And I think of it as a series of droplets and ripples,” he told me. “They come and go, flowing in and out, creating the river that is the story of Christmas.”
It is moving all the time, I am in the stream—but I am not the stream.
Santa Claus
It’s such a powerful way of seeing things. This isn’t the story of one person, as Christmas isn’t about ownership, but a collective flow, a choir of elements that include all that this celebration was, is, and will ever be: traditions, beliefs, people and symbols travel across lands and centuries, shaping and reshaping themselves in the hands of those who hold them dear.
The wishing tree was a fir
Every year, people from every corner of the world come to him with their deepest wishes and dreams, the kind we don’t always dare to say aloud.
The young ones first, of course — small hands, wide eyes, sometimes starstruck in silence, at times with questions tumbling out like marbles from a bag. “With children,” he said, “it’s easy — they haven’t learned to wear masks yet.”
And while this holds irreplaceable meaning within their upbringing, what moves me most is what happens to many of the adults who come here. Suddenly, something softens in them, faces open, hearts unguarded: they are children again. To be in the presence of this, feels like witnessing the purest kind of magic.
He listened while I shared this and nodded before replying:
“That’s a very important point,” he said at last. “In the end, age doesn’t matter. There are children who speak like little adults — pensive, serious, carrying questions far beyond their years. And there are grown-ups who get here wide-eyed, rediscovering something they thought they’d lost.” Age doesn’t matter. Even if you don’t have childhood memories of Christmas, you can still find your way to it. You can always connect to what it stands for.
The Circle of Belief
We took a brief pause, and while I was going over my notes and questions, I started thinking: what does it mean to give? And to receive? Why did I never realise they are not opposite? The opposite of giving is withholding, that of receiving is taking. And I’m not sure what to make of this, but a new question arose, so I put it with the other marbles.
When we were ready to pick back up I asked how he manages to keep his own well of hope full, year after year, as people put their dreams into his hands and ask him to grant wishes. He smiled. “That’s the secret,” he said. “They give me something, too. Their faith is what fuels my magic.”
And then I understood why this felt so relevant, and why I knew this without words: it’s an exchange, not a one way street; happiness and joy are exchanged endlessly, circulating like breath. “By distributing joy,” he said, “we receive it. It goes both ways.” This exchange — between faith and marvel, between giving and receiving — is what keeps the invisible world alive. The same thread that stitches together centuries of stories, every letter, every child’s prayer, every spark of hope that refuses to die out.
Won’t you come out to play?
I have long known that what I love about Christmas cannot be touched, unwrapped, or bought. It isn’t anything material — it’s a candlelit glow, a soft, shimmering joy that settles quietly in the heart as the season begins.
It was, and still is, about what we do around that time: decorating the tree symbolises the intention for the season, the wishes, the good thoughts; gifts are about giving a part of us more than anything, showing love, appreciation, and friendship. Food is about togetherness, a celebration of how incredible it is that we are safe, merrily eating under the same roof. And that’s why, for me, the preparation, the anticipation, the sleepless eve, wondering what lies beneath the lit tree, has always held the most marvel.
I was lucky enough to be raised by a mother who gave me the gift of anticipation in its purest form. As a child, of course, I was eager for presents and could hardly wait for Christmas morning. But all these years later, what I remember most fondly are not the gifts I received, but everything else: collecting pinecones from the woods to make placeholders, writing to Santa, looking out the window waiting for snow, wrapping a gift in my bedroom, the smell of my mom’s hot chocolate simmering from the kitchen while watching Home Alone.
It was about possibility and hope, imagination and dreams. In one word: magic. And in this sense, Christmas is — more than anything else — about keeping the gates of the fairy tale world open, even if just a crack.
So it felt especially meaningful when Santa said, “I’ve devoted my life to creating happiness. Of course it’s important to live in reality, but it’s equally important to visit that other world sometimes. And that’s precisely what me and the elves try to do: invite people, young and old alike, to let their inner child come out to play”.
I asked him what he would wish for, if he could write a letter to himself. He smiled and listed a new pair of wool socks, perhaps some chocolate, and a quiet evening with the elves once Christmas is over. Then he adjusted his glasses, a cloud passing through his eyes: “But truly, what I wish for most are smiles, the kind that travel across borders and turn into the energy of kindness. Countless people all over the planet are suffering right now, and the world desperately needs more peace, tolerance, and benevolence.”
And maybe that’s what makes this time of the year – or any spark of mystery that we can cultivate- so powerful: not a way to escape the world as it is, but a path to imagine the world as it could be, a safer place, filled with light, kindness, and love.
The Heart of Christmas
As our conversation wound to a close, I had jotted down one last question, certain he still had a surprise or two tucked beneath that woolly hat.
“Some people don’t believe in you; what do you make of that?”
He tilted his head, as though listening to something far away. “Belief is a curious thing,” he said softly. “Sometimes the answers we seek are found in unexpected places… like yesterday’s newspaper.” He rose from his chair, wandered to a stack of magazines and papers in a corner, and began leafing through them. At first he checked the most recent ones, flipping through their pages with a faint frown. Nothing. He reached for older editions, but still came up empty. He paused for a wink, drumming his fingers together. A spark seemed to catch behind his eyes, and at last he drew out a folded newspaper clipping, worn soft by time.
He handed it to me with a nod. I opened it. The date read September 21, 1897: yesterday, for Santa, seemed to stretch much farther back than it does for the rest of us.
I began to read aloud:
Dear Editor,
Virginia O’Hanlon
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say that there is no Santa Claus. Papa says “If you see it in The Sun, it is so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia had sent her letter to The Sun, the New York newspaper where children—and adults—often turned when they wanted the world explained.The editor, Francis Church, answered with what would become one of the most reprinted editorials in history:
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus” he wrote in one of the first few lines, Santa exists as much as love, generosity, and devotion exist. What kind of world would it be without all this? Without Santa?, he asked.
It would be an unbearably dull one, stripped of its light—just as it would be without Virginia to remind us of wonder. Just because nobody sees Santa Claus, it doesn’t mean he isn’t real. After all, the truest things in life are often the ones we cannot see. He ended his editorial by saying that Santa lives forever, that there is nothing more true and everlasting in this whole world.
Perhaps that’s why Christmas and its river keeps flowing: it’s more than a date on the calendar, it’s proof that belief itself is a renewable resource.
These words stand true to this day, a reminder for Virginia — and everyone who has read his words since — that the unseen world of joy and generosity is always there for those who keep their hearts open.
A pocket full of light
For a moment, we were quiet. The room fell into that particular hush that only occurs when the unseen world brushes against ours. Santa leaned back, eyes soft beneath the twinkle of the lights.
“There is a world,” he said, “a beautiful world of fairy tales and stories, where fiction becomes fact and fact turns to fiction. It’s always there, waiting for you. You’re welcome to visit anytime — though you don’t have to. You can leave it for a while, and when you come back, tomorrow or decades later, the door will still be there. You don’t even have to travel here to find it. It lives in your mind; you only have to remember.”
I myself live in this world half the time. Somehow, despite the years passing, life running its course with its signature blend of love, loss, happiness and despair, I never forgot the way back, never lost the keys. In the end, I suppose I always have been — and always will be — a Virginia.
