Auld Lang Syne

It's January, and even though we've been in the New Year for nearly 72 hours, I'm still drawn dreamily back into December and earlier days of Christmastide. Most every year I feel this way, and I can't exactly put my finger on why...I just do. Maybe it's because December is co closely linked with a kinder, gentler time in my life, when things were a little less unsure. Maybe because December holds the Magick we imagine the rest of the year. Most of my childhood memories-good and bad-are set in the homey warmth of this time of year.

It's good to simply be still and remember.

Oneness and Salvation

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Oneness and salvation...two words that most Pagans shy away from using or have banned from our vocabulary. The memories attached to them are sometimes painful and infuriating when placed in  the context of a former religious tradition. Why? Because words have power. They evoke memories which cause us to relive situations. What we miss in our hurry to cast off words such as these is that the power they have is infused by us-we ourselves give them power. Words are just tools, and until we realize that it's not the words that are the cause of our knee jerk reaction and  gut-wrenching pain, but our definition of them, we are going to be slaves to the negativity we ourselves create. Oneness is the unity of many parts:it is that which has come together.

Just being together is generally a good thing. Sometimes it's a necessary thing. We are not so much independent as we are interdependent. Our existence matters to others, and that's why we get together for conversation and dialogue, to sing and dance, to simply be.

The need to be together surfaces intensely during the winter holidays. Perhaps it's something in our genetic code that relates directly to our tribal origins. We gather to remember things we did together, things and people we have lost, traditions we hold dear. We gather to share the stories and beautiful music of the season. We gather to witness the return of the light and to experience our mortality. We gather to celebrate.

And celebrate we do! We bring evergreens inside our homes, stake up a tree and decorate it with fantastic and magickal baubles. We feast and make merry. We grow close and love. Our last days of the waning year are mostly spent in a frantic observance of hilarity and excess, which for the most part, is intended to make us happy. We make magick in the mundane, and it is the only time of the year when it is not only acceptable, it is expected.

We expect miracles out of nowhere. Out of thin air, the most dark, dank, boring  everyday parts of our lives are suddenly supposed to be transformed into something glorious. Because...Everything looks better with glitter.  In those precious few days at the end of the calendar, we ought to renew and transcend ourselves. Few of us actually know how, and this, I believe, is what causes what we've come to know as the 'holiday blues'. When our high expectation falls flat or is not met, we suddenly sink into the dark and cold parts of our souls, defeated. What were we thinking? Why did we dare to dream? The demon of depression sits heavily on our shoulder, and he has our ear.

The fact is that life goes on, even without us. That puts our existence into perspective. We are here now, and tomorrow we will be gone. What makes that matter is what we do with our time here, and who and what we love. These last few precious days of being gathered together with a singular focus is the only time for some when it is safe to love, as if they need permission or an excuse. Love, however we define it, bids us to come closer. It enjoins us to become one, and our Oneness, our recognition of our being a part of something larger than ourselves, is our true salvation.

Wondrous Strange

The days between Winter Solstice and New Year's Eve have always had that slightly askew, muddled feeling to me, like someone cut the anchor and set me adrift to float gently toward the horizon. There is an emptiness that is welcome after weeks of frantic preparation for the holidays, a blessing of relief from the holiday ho-ho and commotion. I don't think I'm alone in this feeling, because I've seen that same fleeting look of momentary confusion/fear/lostness on the faces of others in the last few days which elicits the same nervous smile, like we all should be doing something other than playing hooky from Life.

Yet during this time out of time I can feel an urgency also. Within this period when not much seems to be happening on the surface, things are churning and formulating down deep within. It's as if the potential of the New Year is coming together, ready to explode into being at just the right moment when the power peaks. It's synergy, the coming together of many forces into oneness. While I believe reflection and introspection are restoratives for the soul, each New Year's Day I feel as if I've emerged from a dark underground place where my spirit has been hibernating. Blinking, I view the light of day for the first time on a first new day, and it is a extraordinary, magickal thing for me. It is wondrous-strange.

It is not to say we leave on-going responsibility behind. There will always be things we need to lug  through the portal of the New Year with us- things that require our attention so that everyday life as we know it continues. No journey is complete without baggage, but I do believe that we can to some extent control the weight of the load we bare. So often we drag our selves down with unnecessary things and make life ponderous and sullen. That's why the Place of Deep In-Dwelling is important: it's a safe haven to examine our lives and regenerate. Things we no longer need can be left there, where they will eventually fade away like so much compost, and perhaps help better things grow for us in the future.

Our New Year's Eves are spent quietly at home, or celebrating with family and friends. The phenomenon of First Night is interesting to me because we spend the last night of the old year in a Janus frame of mind, cramming  activities into those last few hours that directly contrast our ordinary lives: roaming around watching street performers, going to art and concert venues, going on amusement rides and eating foods we normally would eat- all in the name of having one last good time before the Big Ball drops at midnight. It's as close to celebrating Misrule as most of us dare come, and we end it with a kiss- the single final act of affection and kindness we can manage in those few precious last seconds as we cross over into the Unknown. We toss the confetti into the air (and our cares symbolically with it), shout as loudly as we dare (to frighten away those ever present demons) and drop the balloons from the ceiling ( as a quasi blessing of air, the element of inspiration.)


Then it's over. Life returns as a hopefully better version of what it was before. The champagne glasses are cleared away, the confetti and streamers are swept up, and the remaining balloons popped. We are left in the silence alone with ourselves once again, wondering what direction to take, and if it will be a better choice than the one we made last New Year's Eve.

Remembering Love

It's just a tiny ornament, one inch long and half an inch wide. Sandwiched between two small pieces of glass is a faded, brown little flower, with the word
"Love" etched below. It's held together by a bit of metal foil and hangs by a frayed red ribbon.

It means the world to me.

We were standing in front of a shop  window filled with etched glass ornaments and sun catchers in Baltimore's Inner Harbor in mid- September,having walked from Camden Yards where we'd spent a relaxing afternoon watching the O's. Frankly, I'm not much for baseball-I'm not a fan of any sports, really: Occasionally I watch the Olympics. On this particular day I'd made the 90 minute drive down I-95 to volunteer on the crew at a charitable event John was playing for the regional Cerebral  Palsy agency, and we would be attending the Orioles game prior to the concert. Some of us took a side trip through the Inner Harbor just to window shop and came upon this glass shop.

The rather plain rectangle was quietly put into my hand. It was wrapped in a piece of white tissue paper. There was a tiny pressed purple and white violet and the word "Love" etched into the glass. It would look cute on my Christmas tree and join in the eclectic riot of ornaments that I carefully packed away each year. There were no accompanying pronouncements of love, just a low-key, non-romantic "Here you go-from me."  John had brought me ornaments from all over the world for my collection, so we'd gone through this particular ritual for years; most of the time something would arrive in the mail followed a day later by a phone call. Occasionally, like this day, the babble in question would be handed to me in person.

Nothing appeared special about the little glass rectangle when it was pressed into my hand. Nothing at all.

Except it would be the last ornament John ever gave me. He was killed in a plane crash three weeks later. I was devastated not by his dying, but by the separation of death. I wanted him back. I still do.

I'd forgotten about the little glass rectangle until I found it still wrapped in the tissue paper tucked deep in the pocket of my purse one day in early December. It was just in time to put it on the tree with my other pretties and twinkling lights. John had been dead exactly two months to the very day I placed it on a high branch so the cats wouldn't disturb it. Back lit by the lights on the tree, the edges of the etched letters made tiny dancing stars.

Fifteen Christmases have passed since John died, yet he's still with me. This one particular little piece of sparkling glass is always hung at eye-level so I can pick it out easily it every time I  look at my holiday tree. Admittedly, it is not as pretty as it used to be since the flower faded. But I remember what it looked like when it was new, and that's what I see, a delicate purple and white violet. Violets, in the language of flowers, have many meanings: friendship, love, remembrance, resurrection, rebirth... an un-ending promise. The ancient Romans laid violets on the graves of loved ones to denote continued affection after death. This is what enters my subconscious every time the little ornament catches my eye. It tells me that our friendship has endured beyond the veil and is still present even today. It says that the relationship not only continues, but will bring us back together at another time and place.

Another wonder of this magickal season, where Mystery reminds us of the fragility of Life and Love.

15 Days of Thankfulness: Upcoming Events

 Day 9

I'll admit it- I haven't been following the "rules" my friend Cordelia set down when she wrote up this latest challenge. There has been so much to be thankful for it's been difficult to limit myself- but I'm going to try this time....Here are 3 Upcoming Events for Which I am Thankful:

1.The Approaching Winter Festivals: Happy Holidays

Thanksgiving, The Feast of St. Andrew,Advent, St. Nicholas Day, Santa Lucia, Bodhi Day Yule, Las Posadas, Hanukkah, The Birth of Mithra, Saturnalia, The 12 Days of Misrule, Sol Invictius,Christmas,Christmastide, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, Winter Skoal, Lunar New Year, Hogmanay, Epiphany (Three King's Day) and Eastern Orthodox Christmas all fall between the fourth Thursday of November and mid-January....and I'm certain there are a few I've forgotten. It takes us from deep Autumn into early Winter, and they're all " days of feasting". I  love decorating and cooking for the holidays and I celebrate as many as I can each year

2. The Public Release of An Affair of the Heart
The independent film documentary about Rick Springfield I am featured will be entered in film festivals around the country after the New Year- maybe as soon as Sundance Film Festival in mid-January 2012! If that's the case I'm going to stay with a friend in Utah who volunteers at the festival so I can help promote the movie. It's been shown twice-at the premiere screening in Malibu in September, and on the latest Rick Springfield fan cruise just last week-and the review have been better than we could have ever hoped for. I know it's has a niche audience, but I think it has a wider appeal to those who enjoy music documentaries and human interest stories as well. Time will tell.


3. Book Publishing

There's been some interest in a couple of manuscripts I've been working on. One is about holidays within the 'year and a day' cycle, and the other began as a Yuletide devotional and expanded to include my own illustrations. I've also just launched a new interfaith inspirational blog called Feast of Days, which can be found at spiritualbanquet.blogspot.com

This time and these things, I am thankful for whatever the future holds.

Happy 1/1/11... and Now What?

I grew up on the outskirts of South Philadelphia, and when you are a kid in such ethnic-influence and heavily immigrant influenced places you realize that the rest of the world doesn't always do what you do, that somethings of your childhood are truly unique. Such is the Mummer's Day Parade, always on January 1st. No where else in the country does this phenomenon occur-it is unique to Philadelphia's Irish and Italian Mummer's Societies
( private pubs, politely called social clubs in the area.) If you grew up in the wider Philly area, you were bound by tradition and duty to watch the Mummer's Day Parade-all 10 or 12 hours of it. No kidding, this is one of the longest parades in history, beginning in the wee hours and not ending until around 9 p.m. when the string bands perform their tinny, cheeky renditions of current pop songs and holiday hits.

The major recommendations of the Mummer's Day Parade are: the string bands-combos made up of stringed instruments, woodwinds and percussion; the elaborate themed costumes; and the extra-ordinary amount of alcohol that flows through the streets of the City of Brotherly Love. Sometimes literally.

Mummer's are difficult to explain to the rest of the world, and I'm not going to try; the following historical material is from their website:

Mummers tradition dates back to 400 BC and the Roman Festival of Saturnalias where Latin laborers marched in masks throughout the day of satire and gift exchange.  This included Celtic variations of “trick-or-treat” and Druidic noise-making to drive away demons for the new year.  Reports of rowdy groups “parading” on New Years day in Philadelphia date back before the revolution.  Prizes were offered by merchants in the late 1800’s.  January 1, 1901 was the first “official” parade offered about $1,725 in prize money from the city.

The Mummers parade is a celebration of the New Year but is serious business in Philadelphia.  Clubs work on the costumes and practice all year for their one day in the sun (…wind, rain or snow).  There are many lively discussions over the scoring by the judges and adherence to the complicated set of rules the marchers must follow when being judged.  String Bands are judged on their musical presentation as well as the costumes.  Seeing and hearing a String Band performing live in the parade is a one-of-a-kind experience.

Comic clubs tradition from ancient Greek god Momus who was the personification of mockery, blame, ridicule, scorn, raillery and stinging criticism.  Momus was expelled from heaven for his/her criticisms and ridicule of the gods.  The comic clubs continue to raise controversy over these themes they use in the parade that make fun of current issues and news stories such as issues involving religion, ethnicity, and feminism.  Many Mummers parade controversies over polices, such as the exclusion of women and the use of black-face, lasted many years.

The outdoor parade was postponed in 2003, the first time in 13 years .  There have been 22 weather-related postponements  since 1922.  There was no parade in 1919 due to WW1 and in 1934 due to the depression and the lack of prize money.

Now, go to You Tube and watch any number of Mummer's Day Parade/ Philadelphia String Band videos to get the full experience.

*   *   *

New Year's Day has always had a freaky vibe for me. After the excitement and sentimentality of  New Year's Eve, it is nearly anticlimactic, a day outside of time, when people aren't quite sure what to do with themselves. Either we're recovering from the first hangover of the year, or sleep in, or go to the mall to join other zombie shoppers schlepping brainlessly through stores, mumbling, " Must spend money. 70% off..."

My day started by reading greetings from friends on Facebook and Twitter; and to tell the truth, my eyes were about to glaze over...until I saw the best photo of  New Years Eve 2010. Never mind that it's my very own Rock Star Muse Rick Springfield...yeah, the guy who wanted Jesse's Girl. Wanna make something of it,

LOL...Just leave me alone and I'll be happy.....Meanwhile, back to the photo. Rick and his band had played Times Square earlier on NYE, and he did the Midnight Run in Central Park with his book editor and her family...and 20,000 other people, all running into the New Year...except Rick, who, um...had to answer Nature's call... right there in Central Park. The goofy expression on his face pretty much sums up the relief and elation of running smack into 2011 for me....

Photo by Stacy Creamer

Song for a Winter's Night

Gordon Lightfoot is a Canadian storyteller in the best troubadour sense of the word- his story-songs are so well crafted that once they hook you in,they beg you to listen. The gambit of human emotions play against a simple score, sometimes layer upon layers of individual elements are used to keep the presentation clean and pristine. My favorite Gordon Lightfoot song is Song for a Winter's Night, which is not a Christmas song, but I still look forward to hearing it during the holidays because this seems to be the only time they play it on the radio.

It has been covered many times by other artists (a particularly bad version by Sarah McLatchen, who did an airy-fairy rendition that traps you into a bad LSD trip) to Jim Croce and wife Ingrid Jacobson, who did it spot- on as a duet, and is probably sonically a better version than Lightfoot's own. (Don't remember Jim Croce? He was a folk singer in who was killed in a plane crash in 1973 and who's most famous hit was Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.Check him out, he was fantastic.) Secretly, I always wanted John Denver to have recorded it. Lightfoot's version has a no nonsensical depth of emotion to it- it is the voice of the every man.

The lamp is burning low upon my table top

The snow if softly falling

The air is still in the silence of my room

I hear your voice softly calling

If I could only have you near

To breathe a sigh or two

I would be happy just to hold the hands I love

Upon this winter's night with you

The smoke is rising in the shadows overhead

My glass is almost empty

I read again between the lines upon each page

The words of love you sent me

If  I could only know within my heart

That you were lonely too

I would be happy just to hold the hands I love

Upon this winter's night with you

The fire is dying now, my lamp is growing dim

the shades of night are liftin'

The morning light steals across my windowpane

Where webs if snow are driftin'

If I could only have you near

To breathe a sigh or two

I would be happy just to hold the hands I love

Upon this winter's night with you

And to be once again with you.

That's the entire song in three tight  verses; Lightfoot is a sparse writer. It's all the longing your heart has ever had in less than three minutes.You know exactly what the protagonist is thinking because it's all right there. 

Kything, the Celtic spiritual practice of being in the astral presence of a loved one takes place in created sacred space, where you are both drawn in to be held in a loving way. You can sense the presence, see the familiar lines around their eyes and mouth as they smile, sense their warmth, smell their skin, feel a fleeting touch and hear their breathing.

This, I believe is the essence of Song  for Winter's Night. It is awesomely magickal and wondrously simple- a conjuration of presence,within the soft glow of a lamp, and perhaps a glass of mulled wine. What better way to sing of a winter's night?


[Find the best version of Song for Winter's Night on the CD Gord's Gold, a compilation of some of his very best and most popular songs.]

Three Kings and a Bambino Shed

I was serving in what turned out to be my last parish as an Episcopal minister, and it was late Advent. I was the assistant rector in a Revolutionary War era church built of river rock at a cross roads which sat back far enough off the road that the roar of combustion engines was lost to birdsong and organ music. A beautiful building, with white-washed, gated pews and a slave gallery (balcony) just up a winding staircase. It had changed little since it was built, and things were rather cramped by today's standards. I remember it now as a kind of dollhouse/church,the appointments much too low and small for modern men and women.

Father Mark was known around the diocese as a bit of a character: he'd been a university chaplain and when he wasn't appointed a canon by the Bishop in his home diocese (whose politics he was diametrically opposed to) he somehow managed to not only be appointed to that position in the Philippines, he picked up a Doctor of Divinity along the way as well. at one point he was nominated as Diocesan Bishop and his wife told him that " You'll win because people know you." or, " You'll loose because people know you." I thought it was a very Buddhist way of looking a things. Well, Mark lost the election, and he immediately became the rector of the Church at Mill Creek Hundred.

Like all churches that had been in existence for a period of time, Mill Creek Hundred had an eclectic assortment of holiday decorations- things purchased by the Altar Guild for a specifically themed event, or things donated from family clutter. The Nativity set was composed of the latter.

Every Episcopal Church has a Nativity set- Mary, Joesph, the Babe Jesus, a manger, and some hay. The set at Mill Creek Hundred had been expanded over the years by the addition of various odd pieces-Shepard's, angels, animals, birds and many, many sheep and several camels. None of these additional pieces matched the original set and many were of a different scale, which made it a yearly logistics challenge for the dear ladies of the Altar Guild to position figures twice the size of the Holy Family far off in the background so when viewed from the front, they all appeared to be the same size. My favorite piece was a Shepard who looked exactly like Charleston Heston in the role of Moses; at some point he had been dropped and decapitated, and his head hastily glued back into place, only with his Adam's apple on the side of his head so it resembled a goiter. Recalling my first year of Old Testament studies, I determined that Moses had not been present at the Nativity, so this guy had to be a Shepard by process of elimination. Summoning my  art conservation skills honed at NYU, I took him home, decapitated the figure with a Dremel tool,sanded down the offending goiter,and repositioned his head. At the same time I made a couple of cuts through the legs to foreshorten them so he didn't tower over the Manger when positioned at the back among countless sheep of every size and color (including pink and mauve, don't ask...I didn't.)

While I was performing surgery on Moses lost twin, Father Mark was crawling far back into the basement of the church to retrieve what he termed, " The Bambino Shed". (Both Mark and I have a wicked sense of humor and played well off one another; we could make nearly anything into the subject of irreverence and satire, for which we both were brought before the Bishop and warned many times, ha ha...) The Bambino Shed had been recycled out of an old wooden orange crate, the whole outside of it wrapped with 1 inch holed-chicken wire so greenery could be lovingly tucked in by the Altar Guild. Attached to one of the upper cross beams (which had begun it's life as a # 2 lead pencil) was a rather large, out of proportion spun-cotton dove, whose left wing was shortened by the silverfish who also resided in the church basement.)

On December 15th, my job was to take the entire cast of the Nativity home and clean/repair or discreetly dispose of things too unseemly to represent the birth of Jesus.
I patched a camel, a few sheep, and tossed out what I believe might have been a boarder collie, but resembled an anteater by the position of it's snout ( No anteaters at the Holy Birth, either. Sorry. Although the elephants used by one of the Magi had to have come from Africa by the size of their ears...maybe I was hasty throwing out that anteater, er, dog...)

The six elderly ladies who made up the Altar Guild always did a magnificent job of decorating and wasted nothing...The Bambino Shed containing the Holy Family and now covered by greens was lit by a small electric bulb disguised as an angel...The Magi were placed on the opposite side of the Sanctuary and moved daily toward their quest following the star (e.g.,the table upon which the Bambino Shed sat) ...three Magi, a horse, a camel and an elephant, accompanied by servants and chests of gold, frankincense and myrrh, inched their way across the sanctuary floor toward the Bambino Shed, until they all hopped up onto the table holding the other figures on January 6th, the Feast of the Epiphany( an assumption on my part; I never actually saw them do this, although I did inadvertently drink too much communion wine during the three Xmas Eve services that year and teetered dangerously against the Altar Rail, nearly falling over backwards. After that, I learned to pull rank on the ushers and make them finish the blessed sacrament left in the cup, LOL.)

The daily journey of the intrepid Magi, aided by the Altar Guild, was dramatic and quaint. I must admit, however, that I was stymied by the two additional Magi peaking out from beneath the poinsettias surrounding the Lectern ( Who were they? Did someone on the Altar Guild uncover a forgotten text of the Old Testament? Were they the second string-just in case one of the first three didn't make it during the journey following the star to Bethlehem? I wondered, but the wisdom I had gained over the years as a minister told me not to question the mysterious ways of the Altar Guild, and the additional two Magi, their camels and slaves, remained in hiding under the poinsettias until well past the Epiphany.)

At the appointed time on December 25th, at the end of the first service on Christmas Eve, the occupants of the Bambino Shed came alive. There was an audible gasp as the lights were dimmed and the string of white lights positioned among the rocks and trees and cut greens were lit...it was magic.Everything took on a golden glow. The single angel, wearing a tinfoil reflector disguised as a robe lit the inside of the manger, and the Holy Family and visitors were illuminated by the Glory of the Lord (and Edison Electric). I'm pretty certain this was what St. Francis had in mind when he created the first Creche so many Christmases ago to tell the sacred story to the masses.

Love was born once more at Christmas, the Divine Child shone in the rapture of the Sun as the Son once again....Hallelujah!

Peace and Grace of the Season be yours today and everyday....

Merry Christmases Long Ago

This afternoon I bought an artificial Christmas tree at Family Dollar. It was on sale because the box was torn but all the parts were in it, so for $3, it went home. I was already resigned to the pot of bare branches like I had last year, which-if the truth be known- wasn't so bad looking after I they were trimmed with all the garland, tinsel and ornaments. In fact, you could hardly see any of the bare branches, and where they peeked through, it gave the whole thing character in a Charlie-Brown-Xmas-Tree kinda way...right up until the branches dried out and began to break off bit by bit and the oasis they were shoved into split in two and half the 'tree' fell on the floor before New Year's Eve.

There won't be that problem this year, because I have a 4 ft. genuine Noble Fir artificial tree, which the instructions packed with it assured me was made of real PVC ( Oh, goody!) The Noble Fir-named no doubt for it's fine heroic bearing and NOT because it is representative of any strain of fir tree named after anyone with the moniker Noble- is presently sitting on a card table wedged in the corner of my make-shift bedroom while it awaits trimming. I hastily cut a tree skirt from a yard of Xmas fabric covered in toy soldiers and holly on a cream-colored background and tucked it around the foot of Noble Fir to cover up its scrawny green  PVC legs, then got the stationary paper box full of Christmas ornaments off the top shelf of the closet where  they've rested since this time last year.


The box of ornaments is a wondrous assortment of things I've acquired from friends and my own habit of collecting through the years. Most of us have at least a few fragile ornaments from our childhood- mine are a couple of pine cone clowns made in China in the 1950's, two hard white plastic reindeer that I inherited after Aunt Laura Pote died in 1985, and a handful of peeling glass gee-gaws from my grandparents. The reindeer are always placed first on any tree of mine since I rescued them from the garbage when Aunt Laura's son was cleaning out the house after she died-she always placed them first on her own tree, and this sacred act was obviously lost on her only child who had tossed them into the trash can around the back of the house. They aren't particularly pretty, but they hold a lot of good memories for me of the next-door neighbor who was my adopted 'aunt' for 18 years.

Then there are the things I have made over the years from various phases of crafts- painted ceramics, counted cross-stitch,plastic canvas, bead kits, pain-by-number wood, assorted glued glitter items. They are joined by various Muppets, the Peanuts Gang, a 4 inch fully dressed Beefeater doll from England, cats, mice, cotton and feather birds and an assortment of stuff from friends-Jeff's grandmother's blue and white beaded Star of David and  bell; Gretchen and Mark's clothes pin bird's nests, Kay's hand-crocheted Xmas stockings and the Kermit the Frog in a Santa Hat JD stowed out of sight in his luggage and brought back from London for me when he filmed John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together. My step-sister Elizabeth found a porcelain and cloth Scrooge doll in the Christmas Room at Ronnie's Garden World in Smyrna, DE ( Which I miss, by the way, because they had the best selection of  decorations anywhere.) There are a dozen or so formerly white plastic glitter- dipped snowflakes that just make the tree, in my opinion, even though they have now aged to a yellow patina.


Presently, it's all laying in a jumble under the tree sitting on the table awaiting the big moment-as soon as I find the fluffy white and silver garland and a few strings of white lights I've shoved inadvertently in another box...meaning I will have to search through all of them tomorrow until I find said missing items. I will not be able to trim the tree without them, it's in violation of the 'The Rules'-I bet you know which ones, because you have them at your house, too. You know, the Rules that dictate what goes on the tree in which order to a specific Christmas CD, or which ornaments are traditionally placed on the tree by whom, or that the lights must be on while the garland and ornaments are being added. Things that we don't even think about but do out of habit because they are such ingrained traditions.( And isn't that yet another wonder of Christmas?)


Meanwhile, as I position each ornament in its proper place and adjust it to hang just so, all the Christmastimes I have ever lived through will come flooding back in my memory in the blink of an eye,and I will be living them again...as I happily sing along in each of the Muppet's voices that I learned while working on the above mentioned Christmas special...abet, slightly off key.

Take that, Charles Dickens...even YOU can't create Christmas Past like a tiny ball of spun cotton atop a pine cone from China with spindly pipe cleaner arms and legs can!

Advent...The Time of Waiting

                                                    [Sarum Blue Vestments in a church sanctuary for Advent]

The four Sundays before the Feast of the Nativity -beginning either the last one in November or the first one in December- are set aside in the Western Christian world as the Season of Advent. It's a time of introspection and renewal at the start of the Church Year ( the time when Bibical readings of the Lectionary recycle.) Most popularly it was a time to prepare candidates for the Rite of Holy Baptism in the Christian Churches, but for those members already having received the Rite, it was a time to study religious texts and read inspirational stories. In more popular usage of the day. it has become family time, when everyone gathers to read a prayer as a candle on the Advent wreath is lighted, listen to or sing Christmas carols, bake and make crafts for the holidays. The traditions vary according to faith tradition and within individual parishes and families.

The Pagan traditions of bringing greens indoors to decorate were modified by the Christian Church; the austere Sun Wheel becoming the Advent Wreath.(It's necessary to note that mistletoe- the Sacred Golden Branch of the Druids- was never to be taken into a Christian Church. My how times have changed!)  The mythology changed little-both honor the birth of a Divine Child. The symbolism changed even less- greens formed into a circle or attached to a wagon wheel, then divided into four quarters, and candle anchoring each quarter. In many Anglican Churches today you will still find the wagon wheel type of Advent Wreath suspended from the ceiling and lowered each week with much ceremony as another candle is lit to mark the time. Newer churches use brass candelabra especially designed for the purpose and only used for this time of year; some have a small wreath of greens attached, some are purposely made with a brass circle to hold the candles and ribbons tied on, or flowers attached. The decorations are only limited to the imagination of the local Altar Guild members. Some folks-like me-have a home version of the Advent Wreath, although I no longer keep strict Christian tradition. My own wreath is a small circle of greens layed in a circle on a silver- plated tray, four candles at the quarters and the circumference filled with pine cones or nuts, artificial poinsettias, or ribbons. I have used red, green, purple or white candles depending on my mood and finances, and I never have the same wreath twice. I pray for the renewal of my spirit as I await the birth of the Divine Child at Yule and Christmas. The wreath symbolizes the sun, the four elements and directions coming together at the center, and the return of the Sun and the Son. The many meanings keep it mystical for me.

The first Advent Wreaths most likely were made of cut branches and adorned with tallow candles; later their meaning changed slightly with the royal blue of the Sarum Rite used in  English Churches prior to the introduction of the first Book of Common Prayer in 1549. Like most of the liturgies attached to psycho-pomp, the Sarum Rite was extensive and complicated-and in Latin.Later practice found the liturgy simplified and said in English, the royal blue of the Sarum Rite changed to royal purple, not only to symbolize the expectation of an event associated with the Divine, but to tie in with the liturgical colors and similar waiting period of Lent ( The colors of Lent differing from a deep violet- more red to distinguish the imminent death and resurrection of Christ than the royal purple of Advent- that still retained some blueness.) During the Victorian era it became fashionable in churches to return to the Sarum liturgical colors, but not the Rite itself, which was long lost to history. As the Church is populated by fickle humans, the colors of Advent changed once again back to the royal purple with a singular note-one purple candle was replaced on the third Sunday with a rose pink one to honor the Holy Mother for her contribution to the event. Some modern day Advent Wreaths add a white or gold candle placed in the middle of the wreath on the 25th of December to denote the Holy Child has been born.( I use gold in my wreath because it's the color associated with the God.) What ever prayers you wish to say is acceptable, as there is no longer a hard and fast liturgy for the season; you may pray everyday during the season(lighting the candles every night) until the Nativity or just on the Sundays as you light each new candle (The first week light one candle, the second week, light the candle from the first week, then a second purple, the third light two purple and the pink on, then all four candles on the fourth week.The candles will begin to stagger in height. On the eve of the Feast of the Nativity, light the four candles and the center candle. Let the four Advent candles burn down together then, for Advent is ended...the waiting is over.

"Xmas and Christmas: A Lost Chapter from Herodotus" by C.S.Lewis

“Xmas and Christmas: A Lost Chapter from Herodotus,” by C.S. Lewis
And beyond this there lies in the ocean, turned towards the west and north, the island of Niatirb which Hecataeus indeed declares to be the same size and shape as Sicily, but it is larger, though in calling it triangular a man would not miss the mark. It is densely inhabited by men who wear clothes not very different from the other barbarians who occupy the north western parts of Europe though they do not agree with them in language. These islanders, surpassing all the men of whom we know in patience and endurance, use the following customs.
In the middle of winter when fogs and rains most abound they have a great festival which they call Exmas and for fifty days they prepare for it in the fashion I shall describe. First of all, every citizen is obliged to send to each of his friends and relations a square piece of hard paper stamped with a picture, which in their speech is called an Exmas-card. But the pictures represent birds sitting on branches, or trees with a dark green prickly leaf, or else men in such garments as the Niatirbians believe that their ancestors wore two hundred years ago riding in coaches such as their ancestors used, or houses with snow on their roofs. And the Niatirbians are unwilling to say what these pictures have to do with the festival; guarding (as I suppose) some sacred mystery. And because all men must send these cards the marketplace is filled with the crowd of those buying them, so that there is great labour and weariness.
But having bought as many as they suppose to be sufficient, they return to their houses and find there the like cards which others have sent to them. And when they find cards from any to whom they also have sent cards, they throw them away and give thanks to the gods that this labour at least is over for another year. But when they find cards from any to whom they have not sent, then they beat their breasts and wail and utter curses against the sender; and, having sufficiently lamented their misfortune, they put on their boots again and go out into the fog and rain and buy a card for him also. And let this account suffice about Exmas-cards.
They also send gifts to one another, suffering the same things about the gifts as about the cards, or even worse. For every citizen has to guess the value of the gift which every friend will send to him so that he may send one of equal value, whether he can afford it or not. And they buy as gifts for one another such things as no man ever bought for himself. For the sellers, understanding the custom, put forth all kinds of trumpery, and whatever, being useless and ridiculous, they have been unable to sell throughout the year they now sell as an Exmas gift. And though the Niatirbians profess themselves to lack sufficient necessary things, such as metal, leather, wood and paper, yet an incredible quantity of these things is wasted every year, being made into the gifts.
But during these fifty days the oldest, poorest, and most miserable of the citizens put on false beards and red robes and walk about the market-place; being disguised (in my opinion) as Cronos. And the sellers of gifts no less than the purchaser’s become pale and weary, because of the crowds and the fog, so that any man who came into a Niatirbian city at this season would think some great public calamity had fallen on Niatirb. This fifty days of preparation is called in their barbarian speech the Exmas Rush.
But when the day of the festival comes, then most of the citizens, being exhausted with the Rush, lie in bed till noon. But in the evening they eat five times as much supper as on other days and, crowning themselves with crowns of paper, they become intoxicated. And on the day after Exmas they are very grave, being internally disordered by the supper and the drinking and reckoning how much they have spent on gifts and on the wine. For wine is so dear among the Niatirbians that a man must swallow the worth of a talent before he is well intoxicated.
Such, then, are their customs about the Exmas. But the few among the Niatirbians have also a festival, separate and to themselves, called Crissmas, which is on the same day as Exmas. And those who keep Crissmas, doing the opposite to the majority of the Niatirbians, rise early on that day with shining faces and go before sunrise to certain temples where they partake of a sacred feast. And in most of the temples they set out images of a fair woman with a new-born Child on her knees and certain animals and shepherds adoring the Child. (The reason of these images is given in a certain sacred story which I know but do not repeat.)
But I myself conversed with a priest in one of these temples and asked him why they kept Crissmas on the same day as Exmas; for it appeared to me inconvenient. But the priest replied, “It is not lawful, O stranger, for us to change the date of Chrissmas, but would that Zeus would put it into the minds of the Niatirbians to keep Exmas at some other time or not to keep it at all. For Exmas and the Rush distract the minds even of the few from sacred things. And we indeed are glad that men should make merry at Crissmas; but in Exmas there is no merriment left.” And when I asked him why they endured the Rush, he replied, “It is, O Stranger, a racket”; using (as I suppose) the words of some oracle and speaking unintelligibly to me (for a racket is an instrument which the barbarians use in a game called tennis).
But what Hecataeus says, that Exmas and Crissmas are the same, is not credible. For first, the pictures which are stamped on the Exmas-cards have nothing to do with the sacred story which the priests tell about Crissmas. And secondly, the most part of the Niatirbians, not believing the religion of the few, nevertheless send the gifts and cards and participate in the Rush and drink, wearing paper caps. But it is not likely that men, even being barbarians, should suffer so many and great things in honour of a god they do not believe in. And now, enough about Niatirb.

This is my favorite Thanksgiving-themed illustration by Norman Rockwell, Cousin Reginald Catches the Thanksgiving Turkey ( circa 1920). Not the lavishly detailed one showing Grandma proudly serving a succulent roasted turkey to an adoring family, or the one where the bird is being carved and the kids are having an orgasm over the thought of their own crispy drumstick, or even the one where heads are bowed in prayer over the modest dinner set on the table in a tiny roadside restaurant. No, dandy Cousin Reginald, clothed in his city slicker Sunday Best being chased across the farmyard by a turkey nearly his own size while his country cousins and their dog cheer for the bird (and you know they are!) is my favorite holiday Rockwell for this time of year. Why? Because it's believable. Because it reminds me that my cousins were once just like this...because I was that citified kid once-upon-a-time, and I can relate. Because there's more irony and truth in the painting where the kid is being chased by his intended meal than the one where the freckle-faced kid with the big ears and his whole goofy family are gawking at the perfect Thanksgiving dinner could ever convey for me. Because in real life things don't always go as you planned, sometimes you get laughed at, and you're forced to make a hasty retreat  empty-handed for all your effort, no matter how much bravado you manage to muster...and it continues to be that way for all time.

My grandparents spent the first part of my childhood trying to replicate a Norman Rockwell existence. They grew up in a world illustrated and interpreted by him . His idealism made them forget how dirt poor their neighbors and they really were: family life-the American Way-was raised up in all it's blue-collar glory on the cover of Life magazine during the war and post-war years.Never mind that you turned in the collars and cuffs of your favorite clothing so they'd wear longer and were darning your socks. They looked to those magazine covers to see who they were instead of the mirror because their real, everyday existence was too drab and painful to have stare back at them. They strived  to become the personification of Life magazine according to the Gospel of Rockwell. It gave them hope for the future, but meanwhile, life didn't look too bad. They believed it was how things were supposed to look and be, and they knocked themselves out recreating the family gatherings  portrayed.  Forget that we had to eat spaghetti every Wednesday night  because it was the only way we could possibly afford a holiday dinner later. The few 'found' dollars we had from eating  prudently was put into Pop's Christmas Club savings account from work, and they financed the Rockwell-style gatherings we had for the aunts, uncles and cousins at Thanksgiving and Christmastime.

I'm not knocking Norman Rockwell at all- he was an excellent artist. He understood what was in the heart of the Common Man and celebrated those little moments that made life bearable because we could gaze upon his paintings and know what we shared in the struggle. He celebrated diversity and praised patriotism. He was ahead of his time by portraying women in all walks of life-as factory and farm workers, professional teachers and nurses -even in war zones- not just as mothers, girlfriends and grandmothers ( but he did that, too). His illustrations and paintings showed real people-faces lined from worry, wrinkled from harsh farm work and age, hair of all colors, styles and conditions, and well-worn clothing old and new. He knew us, and maybe that's why my grandparents trusted his ideal. I none of the magazine  I've looked at recently reflect my life or who I am, and it almost feels like an intrusion to view them rather than an invitation to flip through their pages. The models are all pretentiously posed and seemingly bored with their existence.They are Photo Shopped into perfection.

Maybe the real reason why I love Cousin Reginald Catches the Thanksgiving Turkey  is because it reminds me that you shouldn't take things for granted, and that when you paint the picture that is your life, you should do it with as much detail as possible, and that the colors you use can be subtle to get your point across. Life was once simpler, and we can still have that picture if we consider what needs to be included in the composition and leave all the distractions out.