December 26: A Mysterious Attraction, Keep Christmas Alive, Togetherness

Merton rereads James Joyce's Portrait of the Artist and finds something new . . . 

My reading became more and more Catholic.  I became absorbed in the poetry of Hopkins and in his notebooks—that poetry which had only impressed me a little six years before. Now, too, I was deeply interested in Hopkins’ life as a Jesuit. What was that life? What did the Jesuits do? What did a priest do? How did he live? I scarcely knew where to begin to find out about all such things: but they had started to exercise a mysterious attraction over me. 

And here is a strange thing. I had by now read James Joyce’s Ulysses twice or three times. Six years before—on one of those winter vacations in Strasbourg—I had tried to read Portrait of the Artist and had bogged down in the part about his spiritual crisis. Something about it had discouraged, bored, and depressed me. I did not want to read about such a thing: and I finally dropped it in the middle of the “Mission.” Strange to say, sometime during this summer—I think it was before the first time I went to Corpus Christi—I reread Portrait of the Artist and was fascinated precisely by that part of the book, by the “Mission,” by the priest’s sermon on hell. What impressed me was not the fear of hell, but the expertness of the sermon. Now, instead of being repelled by the thought of such preaching—which was perhaps the author’s intention—I was stimulated and edified by it. The style in which the priest in the book talked, pleased me by its efficiency and solidity and drive: and once again there was something eminently satisfying in the thought that these Catholics knew what they believed, and knew what to teach, and all taught the same thing, and taught it with coordination and purpose and great effect. It was this that struck me first of all, rather than the actual subject matter of their doctrine—until, that is, I heard the sermon at Corpus Christi. 

So then I continued to read Joyce, more and more fascinated by the pictures of priests and Catholic life that came up here and there in his books. That, I am sure, will strike many people as a strange thing indeed. I think Joyce himself was only interested in rebuilding the Dublin he had known as objectively and vitally as he could. He was certainly very alive to all the faults in Irish Catholic society, and he had practically no sympathy left for the Church he had abandoned: but in his intense loyalty to the vocation of artist for which he had abandoned it (and the two vocations are not per se irreconcilable: they only became so because of peculiar subjective circumstances in Joyce’s own case) he meant to be as accurate as he could in rebuilding his world as it truly was. 

Therefore, reading Joyce, I was moving in his Dublin, and breathing the air of its physical and spiritual slums: and it was not the most Catholic side of Dublin that he always painted. But in the background was the Church, and its priests, and its devotions, and the Catholic life in all its gradations, from the Jesuits down to those who barely clung to the hem of the Church’s garments. And it was this background that fascinated me now, along with the temper of Thomism that had once been in Joyce himself If he had abandoned St. Thomas, he had not stepped much further down than Aristotle. 

I frequently turn back to books that I have read, sometimes reread, many times, much like Thomas Merton in the above passage.  And, like Merton, I find new things each time I return.  Last night, after the presents were opened, turkey dinner eaten, and Zoom family meetings ended, I sat down on my couch and read.  Poems from Joseph Brodsky.  Parts of A Christmas Carol.  Old friends, made new in light of the waning days of this pandemic year.

Now, December 26th.  Non-Christmas lovers will have their trees down and decorations put away by nightfall.  People will turn away from the lights of yesterday and begin to anticipate the last days of a pretty wretched year.  As if, at the stroke of midnight on December 31st, the shadows of COVID and Donald Trump and racism and unemployment and recession/depression will vanish like the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come.

I'm a Christmas person.  Usually, the day after, I sit in my living room, staring at the lights on my tree, piles of presents beneath it, and fall into a funk.  A blueness that hangs over me well into the new year.  Today, however, I don't feel that particular absence.  Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I am still in quarantine.  Will be until the fifth day of January.  

I am able to keep Christmas alive because of this.  Won't have to drive down streets and see Christmas trees lying on people's lawns, branches webbed with leftover tinsel, waiting to be gathered and burned in the fires of January.  I can sit in my living room, keep visiting Brodsky and Dickens and Oscar Hijuelos (Mr. Ives' Christmas--still my favorite Christmas novel of all time).  Watch my favorite holiday movies.  George Bailey and Jo March.  Members of the Stone family.  Ebenezer Scrooge and Scott Calvin.  All without the reminders of undecorating and unlighting and un-Christmasing.

Here's the thing:  I really do subscribe to the notion of keeping Christmas alive all the year 'round.  My old friend, Scrooge, said it best:  "I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.  I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future.  The spirits of all Three shall strive within me."  That is me.  Anyone who knows me, knows that I will not be taking down my Christmas tree any time soon.  I will thrive in its light, like a Christmas cactus, well into 2021.

You see, it's not about retail sales or economics.  Those things are small bits of cosmic dust in the Christmas universe.  Brief flashes through the atmosphere.  Don't get me wrong:  I love getting presents.  However, it's really not about the gift, but the person who gives me the gift.  It's about thriving in the fact that someone loves and appreciates me.  That's what I try to keep alive all year.  Just like Scrooge.  George Bailey, too.  

These old friends from favorite books and movies have taught me an additional lesson this year, as well.  With the virus stripping away so many of the normal yuletide traditions, all that is left is this:  human connection.  It's what everyone is craving these days.  It's what I get rereading A Christmas Carol and Brodsky's Nativity Poems.  I know these characters.  These writers.  These words.  They come to me, gather around me in the kitchen.  The way everyone does at a holiday party.  Because that's where the food is.  The alcohol.  Jokes and laughter.  Where everyone feels most comfortable.  Together.

It's why, yesterday, we crowded around laptops to see each other's faces.  Because we are starved for family and friends.  For embrace.  Fellowship.  Each other.  In this year, more than any other, that is the greatest gift that no virus can dispel.  Our indomitable will for connection.  We found ways to fill that hunger.  Safe and loving ways.  We went the extra mile, because it was important to us.  Necessary.

Here are a few snapshots from quarantine today:

• My beautiful friends Helen and Gala sent me texts this morning about the stuffed Bigfoot I got for Christmas.  Togetherness.
• My beautiful puppy sat by my side on the couch all day as I wrote and read and watched movies.  Togetherness.
• My beautiful kids have been enjoying their Christmas presents all day--computer games, electric toothbrushes, computer chairs.  Togetherness.
• My beautiful daughter enjoyed eating the sugar cookies I baked on Christmas Eve.  A lot.  Togetherness.
• Tonight, I will be planning out my book club that's meeting tomorrow evening.  Discussion questions.  Facebook posts.  Zoom invites.  The author of the book is a wonderful friend of mine, and he's going to be joining us.  Togetherness.
• Later, I will work on a chapbook manuscript that I hope to submit to a contest this January.  A poet friend gave me revision suggestions.  Hoping to create something beautiful.  Togetherness.

It's getting dark outside now.  People are switching on the lights of their Christmas trees.  Soon, I'll heat up some leftover turkey and mashed potatoes.  Maybe I'll eat a sugar cookie.  Ebenezer will be with me.  George Bailey and Joseph Brodsky.  Truman Capote and O. Henry.  Family, each and every one.

Saint Marty gives thanks tonight for the miracle of togetherness--with books, authors, friends, and family.

December 28: Joseph Brodsky, "December 24, 1971," A State of Mind

December 24, 1971

by:  Joseph Brodsky

For V. S.

When it’s Christmas we’re all of us magi.

At the grocers’ all slipping and pushing.

Where a tin of halvah, coffee-flavored,

is the cause of a human assault-wave

by a crowd heavy-laden with parcels:

each one his own king, his own camel.

Nylon bags, carrier bags, paper cones,

caps and neckties all twisted up sideways.

Reek of vodka and resin and cod,

orange mandarins, cinnamon, apples.

Floods of faces, no sign of a pathway

toward Bethlehem, shut off by blizzard.

And the bearers of moderate gifts

leap on buses and jam all the doorways,

disappear into courtyards that gape,

though they know that there’s nothing inside there:

not a beast, not a crib, nor yet her,

round whose head gleams a nimbus of gold.

Emptiness. But the mere thought of that

brings forth lights as if out of nowhere.

Herod reigns but the stronger he is,

the more sure, the more certain the wonder.

In the constancy of this relation

is the basic mechanics of Christmas.

That’s what they celebrate everywhere,

for its coming push tables together.

No demand for a star for a while,

but a sort of good will touched with grace

can be seen in all men from afar,

and the shepherds have kindled their fires.

Snow is falling: not smoking but sounding

chimney pots on the roof, every face like a stain.

Herod drinks. Every wife hides her child.

He who comes is a mystery: features

are not known beforehand, men’s hearts may

not be quick to distinguish the stranger.

But when drafts through the doorway disperse

the thick mist of the hours of darkness

and a shape in a shawl stands revealed,

both a newborn and Spirit that’s Holy

in your self you discover; you stare

skyward, and it’s right there:

                                                    a star.

_______________________________

I love Joseph Brodsky's Christmas collection Nativity Poems.  They never fail to leave me breathless and stunned.  It is still Christmas time.  There was snow today.  Tonight, I will sit in my living room with just the Christmas tree lights on.

There are Christmas cookies left to eat.  Another present to open this evening.  This weekend, the Christmas potluck of my Book Club.

Christmas isn't a day.  It's a state of mind.

Saint Marty is still following the star.

January 1: New Year's Day, Joseph Brodsky, "1 January 1965"

New Year's Day.  My sister is cooking prime rib.  I'm supplying some New York cheesecake.  The day is bright and clear.  I can almost see tomorrow from my window.  Everything seems possible today.

I know that I've shared this poem before, but it drives the cobwebs out of the corners for me.  It fills me strangely with gratitude.

Saint Marty hopes everyone feels the same today.  Gratitude abounding.

1 January 1965

by:  Joseph Brodsky

The Wise Men will unlearn your name.

Above your head no star will flame.

One weary sound will be the same—

the hoarse roar of the gale.

The shadows fall from your tired eyes

as your lone bedside candle dies,

for here the calendar breeds nights

till stores of candles fail.

What prompts this melancholy key?

A long familiar melody.

It sounds again. So let it be.

Let it sound from this night.

Let it sound in my hour of  death—

as gratefulness of eyes and lips

for that which sometimes makes us lift

our gaze to the far sky.

You glare in silence at the wall.

Your stocking gapes: no gifts at all.

It's clear that you are now too old

to trust in good Saint Nick;

that it's too late for miracles.

—But suddenly, lifting your eyes

to heaven's light, you realize:

your life is a sheer gift.

January 4: Stale Licorice, Feeling Sorry for Myself, Jospeh Brodsky, "1 January 1965"

I'm sitting in my office at the university right now, gnawing on a stick of old, stale licorice.  I don't know why I'm eating it.  It was in my desk cabinet, a package of Twizzlers opened before Christmas and forgotten.  Tough as beef jerky.

I've been feeling fairly sorry for myself this evening.  No particular reason.  It's just this gloomy haze that's settled on me.  I have a few more hours before my daughter will be done with dance.  The university campus is still pretty barren.  Classes don't start for another couple weeks.  I've heard a few people walking down the hallway.  But I can see darkness sitting at the bottom of my office door now.

Another bite of the licorice.

I have a New Year poem again tonight.  It's by Joseph Brodsky, from his collection Nativity Poems.  Disclaimer:  it isn't very uplifting until the very end.

Saint Marty is going to throw out the rest of the licorice now, before he cracks a tooth on it.

1 January 1965

by:  Joseph Brodsky

The Wise Men will unlearn your name.

Above your head no star will flame.

One weary sound will be the same—

the hoarse roar of the gale.

The shadows fall from your tired eyes

as your lone bedside candle dies,

for here the calendar breeds nights

till stores of candles fail.

What prompts this melancholy key?

A long familiar melody.

It sounds again. So let it be.

Let it sound from this night.

Let it sound in my hour of  death—

as gratefulness of eyes and lips

for that which sometimes makes us lift

our gaze to the far sky.

You glare in silence at the wall.

Your stocking gapes: no gifts at all.

It's clear that you are now too old

to trust in good Saint Nick;

that it's too late for miracles.

—But suddenly, lifting your eyes

to heaven's light, you realize:

your life is a sheer gift.

January 14: Bad Winter, Crazy Uncle Ned, Ilya Kaminsky, "Joseph Brodsky"

Some weather's coming; you can taste on the sides of your tongue a quince tang in the air.  This fall everyone looked to the bands on a woolly bear caterpillar, and predicted as usual the direst of dire winters.  This routine always calls to mind the Angiers' story about the trappers in the far north.  They approached an Indian whose ancestors had swelled from time immemorial in those fir forests, and asked him about the severity of the coming winter.  The Indian cast a canny eye over the landscape and pronounced, "Bad winter."  The others asked him how he knew.  The Indian replied unhesitatingly, "The white man makes a big wood pile."  Here the woodpile is an exercise doggedly, exhaustedly maintained despite what must be great temptation.  The other day I saw a store displaying a neatly stacked quarter-cord of fireplace logs manufactured of rolled, pressed paper.  On the wrapper of each "log" was printed in huge letters the beguiling slogan, "The ROMANCE Without The HEARTACHE."

In certain places, like Tinker Creek, winter isn't just a season.  It's something that's chewed, like a piece of Juicy Fruit, from October until thaw.  It's about snow.  The depth of it.  The amount.  The frequency.  It's about cold.  Wind chills and arctic blasts.  Polar vortexes and nor'easters.  Winter is a relative you just can't get rid of.  Crazy Uncle Ned.

There's a winter weather advisory in effect for my area of the Upper Peninsula for tonight through tomorrow.  Not a dusting of snow.  It's supposed to be inches, accompanied by wind chills that kill car batteries.  And, yes, when speaking with neighbors or the guy in the checkout line ahead of me, I fall back on winter as a topic.  It's safe.  A common ground.  All Yoopers can talk about the weather.  Bitch about it.  Say, with a hint of pride, "Ten inches last night."

I will set my alarm for 4:30 a.m. tonight.  Get up.  Put on two pairs of pants, layers of shirts, and boots.  I will go outside and shovel.  And shovel.  And shovel.  After breakfast, I will probably shovel some more.  That is life in the Upper Peninsula in January.  A series of snow events, followed by Alberta Clippers and lake enhancements.

I am tired tonight, and I am getting up early to deal with snowplows and snowdrifts.  I will probably swear a great deal.  Howl into the wind.

Saint Marty wants Crazy Uncle Ned to go home.

A winter poem . . .

Joseph Brodsky

by:  Ilya Kaminsky

     Joseph made his living by giving private lessons in everything from engineering to Greek.  His eyes were sleepy and small, his face dominated by a huge mustache, like Nietszche's.  He mumbled,  Do you enjoy Brahms?  I cannot hear you, I said.  How about Chopin?  I cannot hear you.  Mozart?  Bach?  Beethoven?  I am hard of hearing, could you repeat that please?  You will have a great success in music, he said.

     To meet him, I go back to the Leningrad of 1964.  The streets are devilishly cold:  we sit on the pavement, he begins abruptly (a dry laugh, a cigarette) to tell the story of his life, his words change to icicles as we speak.  I read them in the air.

December 26: Literary Ambience, Ghosts of the Past, Joseph Brodsky, "Christmas 1963," Confessions of Saint Marty

Surprising himself--surprising everybody--Ives had, as he promised, booked the tickets.  All arranged, it seemed a dream, their journey to begin and end in London, and taking them to Ireland, Scotland, and other parts.  They went by rail and by car in September, when the weather was mild.  Interested in the literary ambience, she planned to soak up the atmosphere and allow it to influence her readings of Fielding, Smollett, and Dickens, whose books she brought along.  And she had been working on a children's biography of Dickens, which she hoped Ives might illustrate, so part of their plan was to make like tourists, and the other to go about with sketchbooks and diary, and to absorb the spirit of those places like young students.  They were happy, buoyant--"ghosts," as it were, finally, it seemed, to be left behind them.

Ives, near the end of his life, finally tries to move forward, to break away from his haunted past.  The spirit of Charles Dickens guides the trip, as they visit museums and stores, gawk at architecture and art.  For lovers of literary and art, it's a perfect trip, filled with the ghosts of Ebenezer Scrooge and Samuel Pickwick.  It makes them feel young again.  Passionate for each other and for life again.

Last night, my daughter's friend who's a boy arrived at our home.  After a relaxing day of presents and food and cookies, we settled into our couch and watched It's A Wonderful Life, which neither my daughter or her friend had ever seen completely.  It was a lovely way to end Christmas, with one of my favorite movies on the television and two young people sitting next to me, texting and laughing.  After the kind of haunted year I've had, yesterday felt normal.  Grounded and joyful.

I'm sitting at McDonald's right now, staring out the windows.  There's supposed to be snow coming our way.  From the different reports I've read, my little corner of the Upper Peninsula might be receiving anywhere from one to six inches of white Christmas.  In a couple of hours, I'm going to head to the local Target to buy Christmas cards for next year.  I used to do that every year with my sister who recently passed.  She would load up on Christmas wrapping paper and cards and holiday candy.  Then we'd sometimes go to Red Lobster for lunch.

It's difficult shaking off the ghosts of the past.  Every corner I turn, every song I hear, every cookie I eat calls to mind memories of Christmases past.  It's inevitable this time of year.  Impossible to avoid.  I find some comfort in these memories.  But they also make me a little sad.  Like the lyrics to Irving Berlin's "White Christmas," when the snow starts falling, I dream of ones I used to know.  That melancholy is as much a part of the holiday experience as Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman.

Over the next week, I will be thinking a lot about ghosts.  Come December 31, when the balloons and crepe paper are hanging, they will be all around me, waving their arms, blowing their horns.

On New Year's Eve, Saint Marty will raise a glass to these phantoms.  Drink a little with them.  Thank them for the happy times of the past.  And look forward to the happy times of the future.

Christmas 1963

by:  Joseph Brodsky

The magi had come. The infant soundly slept.
The star shone brightly from the vaulted sky.
A cold wind swept the snow up into drifts.
The sand rustled. A bonfire crackled nearby.
Smoke plumed skyward. Flames hooked and writhed.
The shadows cast by the fire grew now shorter,
now suddenly longer. No one there yet realized
that on that very night life’s count had started.
The magi had come. The infant soundly slept.
Steep arches loomed above the manger.
Snow swirled about. White steam rose in wisps.
With gifts piled near him, the child slept like an angel.

Confessions of Saint Marty

December 22: Closer to God, Christmas Perfection, Poet of the Week, Joseph Brodsky, "Star of the Nativity," Abusing Your Elf

Then, and this perked Ives' interest:  "The question we must ask of ourselves is how we can learn to see that which will allow us entry.  That state of mind, closer to God, becomes us.  That is all."

Ives searches for this state his whole life.  He gets a glimpse of it once, in a mystical vision.  The world becomes a shimmering landscape of goodness and love.  Ives walks around dazed by the sight, unable to comprehend all the beauty surrounding him.

Christmas is not about perfection.  This year has taught me that fact over and over and over.  There's really no such thing as a Currier & Ives holiday with horse-drawn sleighs and carolers and starry nights.  There's only been one perfect Christmas, and even that one was full of desperation and animal crap.  In the end, everyone has to settle on Christmas for a barn instead of a hotel with room service.

Last night, I spent five hours finishing my Christmas poem.  I was planning on doing a blog post and wrapping presents and baking Christmas cookies, too.  I had to settle.  Tonight and tomorrow, I have music rehearsals and Christmas potlucks and last-minute gift shopping.  I have been a church musician for 30 years, and December has always been the definition of insanity.  Being pulled in five thousand directions at once.   There's an ancient Greek work I learned in graduate school.  It's "sparagmos."  It means to rend or tear apart a living being.  If that isn't the perfect description of this time of year, I don't know what is.

Tonight, on my way home from work, I stopped by the cemetery to visit my sister's grave.  I did it to remind myself of what is really important.  I know that, if my sister were given the opportunity to celebrate one last Christmas, she wouldn't worry about the new Star Wars movie or making pecan pies or practicing "Mary Did You Know?" or buying the latest iPhone.  No.  She would play Minecraft with my son.  Take my sister with Down Syndrome to McDonald's for lunch.  Bake sugar cookies with my daughter.

I have Christmas presents to wrap now.  My artichoke dip is in the oven baking.  Choir/band practice tomorrow night.  Christmas is upon me, in all its messy chaos.

Saint Marty can almost hear the angel choir singing.

The Poet of the Week...

Star of the Nativity

by:  Joseph Brodsky

In the cold season, in a locality accustomed to heat more than

to cold, to horizontality more than to a mountain,

a child was born in a cave in order to save the world;

it blew as only in deserts in winter it blows, athwart.

To Him, all things seemed enormous: His mother’s breast, the steam

out of the ox’s nostrils, Caspar, Balthazar, Melchior—the team

of Magi, their presents heaped by the door, ajar.

He was but a dot, and a dot was the star.

Keenly, without blinking, through pallid, stray

clouds, upon the child in the manger, from far away—

from the depth of the universe, from its opposite end—the star

was looking into the cave. And that was the Father’s stare.

Abusing your elf...

December 27: Special Place, Father/Daughter Disagreement, Joseph Brodsky, "Flight Into Egypt," New Cartoon

All winter Wilbur watched over Charlotte's egg sac as though he were guarding his own children.  He had scooped out a special place in the manure for the sac, next to the board fence.  On very cold nights he lay so that his breath would warm it.  For Wilbur, nothing in life was so important as this small round object--nothing else mattered...

Wilbur appoints himself guardian of Charlotte's egg sac.  It's his final gift to his friend.  In some way, Wilbur becomes a surrogate father.  Constantly worried.  Overly protective.  Thinking he knows what's best for their welfare.

This afternoon, I had a little father/daughter disagreement.  Well, it really wasn't a disagreement.  We were at church in the choir loft.  My 14-year-old daughter was texting her older cousin, and she was complaining about having to go to church so much.  Her cousin texted back, "That's a lot of religion.  When you turn 18 you don't have to do anything they say."  The conversation continued in this vein.

Now, I know what you're thinking--"Why were you reading her texts?"  Well, she was using my sister's phone, and my sister showed them to me.  Of course, I got quite angry, and I told my daughter that she needed to tell her cousin to keep her opinions about religion to herself.  I told her that giving a couple hours a weekend to God wasn't a whole lot.  "How much time do you spend at dance in a week?" I said.  "And how much time do you spend gaming in a week?"

By the time church was over, my daughter was in tears.  When we got to the car, she said, "I'm not going to stop going to church when I turn 18, Daddy."

I sat there for a second, thinking.  She looked like her world was coming to an end, and I felt like a failure as a father.  I sighed.  "Sweety, I trust you.  I know you know what's right and wrong.  I want you to remember one thing:  your mommy and I wouldn't still be married if it weren't for our faith and trust in God."

She nodded.  "I know, Daddy," she said.

"Good," I said. 

It wasn't one of my prouder parenting moments.  I know that my daughter is testing the waters of adulthood.  When I was her age, I remember skipping church some Sunday mornings and going to Burger King instead.  It's part of being young and stupid and invincible.  Like any father, I want to protect my daughter from making mistakes.  Big mistakes.

I know I raised my daughter right.  Gave her a strong moral and spiritual foundation.  She's a good person.  I hear that from teachers and friends and priests and pastors.

Saint Marty needs to have faith in his little girl.

Another Christmas poem for you--

Flight into Egypt

by:  Joseph Brodsky, trans. by Seamus Heaney

In the cave—it sheltered them, at least,
safer than four square-set right angles—
in the cave the threesome felt secure
in the reek of straw and old clobber.

Straw for bedding. Outside the door,
blizzard, sandstorm, howling air,
Mule rubbed ox; they stirred and groaned
like sand and snowflake scourged in wind.

Mary prays; the fire soughs;
Joseph frowns into the blaze.
Too small to be fit to do a thing
but sleep, the infant is just sleeping.

Another day behind them now,
its worries past. And the “ho, ho, ho!”
 of Herod who had sent the troops.
And the centuries a day closer too.

That night, as three, they were at peace.
Smoke like a retiring guest
slipped out the door. There was one far-off
heavy sigh from the mule. Or the ox.

The star looked in across the threshold.
The only one of them who could
know the meaning of that look
was the infant. But He did not speak.

Confessions of Saint Marty

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December 23: The Worst Day, Accidents and Death, Joseph Brodsky, "A Poem for Christmas"

Wilbur couldn't believe what was happening to him when Lurvy caught him and forced the medicine down his throat.   This was certainly the worst day of his life.  He didn't know whether he could endure the awful loneliness any more.

Wilbur is having a bad day.  He misses Fern.  He's in a new place.  None of the other animals want to befriend him.  In the grand scheme of things, Wilbur's bad day isn't really that bad.  In fact, in a little while, he's going to learn of Zuckerman's plan to turn him into smoked bacon and pork chops.  Talk about bad days.

First, my apologies for not posting yesterday.  It was quite a Monday.  First, my phone rang at 5 a.m.  My sister got in an accident and totaled her car.  Then, in the afternoon, I received a text from my other sister informing me that my uncle had died.  In the evening, I moved snow for over an hour.  By the time I finally sat down, I barely knew my own name.  Posting was impossible.

So, tonight, I'm blogging.  My Christmas poem is done.  The Christmas album is almost done.  I just spent a couple hours wrapping presents with my wife.  Tomorrow morning, I will make a dessert for Christmas day.  That's one thing about Christmas.  Whether you're ready for it or not, it always arrives.

My prayer concerns are multiple this Tuesday night.  I ask you to pray for my sister who got into the car accident.  She's bruised and sore.  I ask you to pray for my uncle's family as they prepare to say goodbye.  And I ask you to pray for my wife's great aunt, who we just learned passed away yesterday, as well.  It has been a really terrible 48 hours.

Saint Marty was hoping 2014 was going to go out with a whimper instead of a roar.  Not too much whimpering going on these days.

A Poem for Christmas

by:  Joseph Brodsky, trans. by Seamus Heaney

Imagine striking a match that night in the cave:
use the cracks in the floor to feel the cold.
Use crockery in order to feel the hunger.
And to feel the desert - but the desert is everywhere.

Imagine striking a match in that midnight cave,
the fire, the farm beasts in outline, the farm tools and stuff;
and imagine, as you towel your face in the towel's folds,
the bundled up Infant and Mary and Joseph.

Imagine the kings, the caravans' stilted procession
as they make for the cave, or rather three beams closing in
and in on the star; the creaking of loads, the clink of a cowbell;
(but in the cerulean thickening over the Infant

no bell and no echo of bell: He hasn't earned it yet.)
Imagine the Lord, for the first time, from darkness, and stranded
immensely in distance, recognising Himself in the Son of Man:
homeless, going out to Himself in a homeless one.

What else can you do?

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December 20: Gift for Words, Christmas Party, Joseph Brodsky, "December 24, 1971," New Cartoon

"Well," said Wilbur.  "I'm no good at making speeches.  I haven't got your gift for words.  But you have saved me, Charlotte, and I would gladly give my life for you--I really would."

Wilbur really is a simple little pig.  But he does understand friendship.  Deep, abiding friendship.  Charlotte has given up everything she has for Wilbur.  In a couple of pages, he will discover her ultimate gift--her very life.  It's a beautiful lesson in love and sacrifice.

Tonight, I went to the Christmas party for the medical office where I work.  There was a great deal of food and alcohol.  Lots of laughter and dirty jokes.  And there was a Secret Santa gift exchange.  We were all given a $25 limit.  When I opened up my gift, there were two gift cards inside from a lovely woman in the billing office.  The gift cards totaled way more than $25.

"Cheryl," I said.  "You didn't have to do this."

"I know," she said.  "But I just love you."

I was speechless.  I gave her a hug and spent the rest of the evening basking in that moment.  I felt like Wilbur after Charlotte saves his life.  Humbled.  Blessed.  Loved.

Saint Marty is going to try to hold onto that feeling as long as possible.

Now, a Christmas poem and a cartoon...

December 24, 1971

by:  Joseph Brodsky

When it’s Christmas we’re all of us magi.
At the grocers’ all slipping and pushing.
Where a tin of halvah, coffee-flavored,
is the cause of a human assault-wave
by a crowd heavy-laden with parcels:
each one his own king, his own camel.

Nylon bags, carrier bags, paper cones,
caps and neckties all twisted up sideways.
Reek of vodka and resin and cod,
orange mandarins, cinnamon, apples.
Floods of faces, no sign of a pathway
toward Bethlehem, shut off by blizzard.

And the bearers of moderate gifts
leap on buses and jam all the doorways,
disappear into courtyards that gape,
though they know that there’s nothing inside there:
not a beast, not a crib, nor yet her,
round whose head gleams a nimbus of gold.

Emptiness. But the mere thought of that
brings forth lights as if out of nowhere.
Herod reigns but the stronger he is,
the more sure, the more certain the wonder.
In the constancy of this relation
is the basic mechanics of Christmas.

That’s what they celebrate everywhere,
for its coming push tables together.
No demand for a star for a while,
but a sort of good will touched with grace
can be seen in all men from afar,
and the shepherds have kindled their fires.

Snow is falling: not smoking but sounding
chimney pots on the roof, every face like a stain.
Herod drinks. Every wife hides her child.
He who comes is a mystery: features
are not known beforehand, men’s hearts may
not be quick to distinguish the stranger.

But when drafts through the doorway disperse
the thick mist of the hours of darkness
and a shape in a shawl stands revealed,
both a newborn and Spirit that’s Holy
in your self you discover; you stare
skyward, and it’s right there:

a star.

Confessions of Saint Marty

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