As I cleaned my house this evening, I decided to listen to podcasts from my local Public Radio station. For the past five years, I've written a Christmas essay for the station's holiday programming. Once I'd recorded these essays for broadcast, I never really thought about them again. I knew they were put on the air, but I never paid attention to dates or times.
Tonight, while I was scrubbing down the toilet and bathtub, I listened to all five of my Christmas podcasts. I wanted to see if they were any good. I have enough distance now from the writing to approach them objectively. I have always been my own harshest critic.
At the end of Charlotte's Web, Charlotte spins one last word into her web. That word is "humble." As a crowd gathers to admire her work, an announcement is made over the loudspeakers at the Fair Grounds about a special award to be given to Wilbur, and the little spider knows she's saved her friend's life:
Up overhead, in the shadows of the ceiling, Charlotte crouched unseen, her front legs encircling her egg sac. Her heart was not beating as strongly as usual and she felt weary and old, but she was sure at last that she had saved Wilbur's life, and she felt peaceful and contented.
Charlotte draws no attention to herself or her accomplishments. She's simply at peace now that she knows Wilbur is safe and will live a long life. She's content to sit in the shadows and watch the results of her efforts.
After listening to the podcasts of my Christmas this evening, I can say with great conviction and humility that they're all pretty damn good. Not a stinker in the batch. I know there's not a whole lot of humility in what I just typed, but I'm not a spring pig and my best friend isn't an arachnid. If Charlotte were to weave something into her web to describe me, it would go something like this: "He's a pretty damn decent writer."
Quiet gratitude. That's what Charlotte is feeling in the above passage, and it's what I'm feeling this evening. I'm thankful for writing in my life. Essays and poems. An occasional short story. Though it doesn't put money in my pockets or food in my fridge, I'm thankful for words.
Listen to some of Saint Marty's words:
Anatomy of a Christmas Poem
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