Happy Holidays

[neologistic]

When I was just a young child, I cornered my father while we were heading cross-state for the holidays. At some unremembered mile marker just past Nashville heading West, I told him I wanted the truth and for him not to lie or pull any tricks, that I wanted to know if he and my mother were the Santa Claus that brought toys for my brother and I. He thought for a moment, and almost disclosed another witty bit of vague wisdom to keep my thoughts twirling, but my questions had been barraging him since Knoxville and he had almost just hit a van that decided to try to slam on its brakes for insurance money, so I got a very short and defeated "Yes, son, you're right."

Well, I don't know how it is you can feel so wrong about being right, but I felt it. Seemed like I had somehow crushed my own awe of winter and the holidays. Those were days still filled with self-absorption, and although I did enjoy making and buying Christmas gifts for others all on my own, the focal point was gingerly contaminated with wants for sparkling mornings of toys just for me.

Over time, I shook that feeling, both the surrender of finding out the "truth" about Santa as well as my selfishness. It became more and more about doing for others, and about seeing that special rosy cheer that only seems to appear on faces this time of year.

Exponents couldn't dream of being able to imagine the magnification of such things after my children arrived. Since then, it's never been about receiving. Watching their excited spirits rambunctiously chatter the silliest of dances all throughout Christmas Eve as the magic of the season grew more and more potent, watching them finally rub sleep from their eyes with anticipation and zest one of few mornings not accompanied instead by dread for scholastic rituals or procrastinated laziness, watching the wonder in their eyes as they find all the surprises "Santa" left for them through the night..

My most cherished part of the holidays, however, is having two wonderful children that watch each other's faces with even more anticipation than for their own gifts, that selfless treasure of being elated to see a sibling ripping up a new present's package. I am truly blessed to have children that genuinely care and watch out for each other, sometimes more than for themselves.

I dread, myself. Dread the day inquiring minds ask me about the truths of the season, dread the words that may or may not come to me, dread the quickening of each year and inch by inch growing up of my babies, almost now sped up to the point of time lapse cut-outs whirring by the days. All the dread is a nominal fee to pay, though, for being truly blessed with such wonderful hearts and minds as I am.

Now that the divorce is final, I only get them for Christmas every odd year, and my lawyer tells me that "every year is odd, indeed" is no practical argument for getting them every holiday. It's becoming increasingly important to me, in my agnostic and far from mainstream spirituality, to celebrate these times of year all throughout the year to make it last as long as I can.

The kids and I now have a tradition, sparked by an unfortunate event centered around my mother's Presbyterian adamancy. Once, as a child being raised Southern Baptist at the time, I stuck cartoon stickers to wooden crosses I made to hand out as gifts, and my mother scolded me with a lesson on idolism and missing the point, of sacrilege and Christian faith. Not too many years ago, I rebutted as an older and wiser father to her about her own actions, as the subtle but oftentimes vicious wrestlings progressed between a very Christian grandmother and a very free-spirited father. My view has always been that the children are too young to be forcefully admitted to the lunacy ward of religious zealotry, and that luring them to sermons with promises of hardened old candy and watered down Kool-aid is a cardinal sin in lessons of morality and personal responsibility. I always felt that the best approach is to answer any spiritual questions as openly and neutrally as possible, with Socratic methods of prompting them to explore their own souls rather than receive IV treatments of Whatever It Is Someone Else Thinks Is Right. Mother, on the other hand, was fine enough with plopping me down in a church at the age of 5 where the pastor took me to the side during Vacation Bible School to promise my admission to the live magic show and candy fest were I just to accept Jesus into my heart as my personal savior, words that I wasn't accustomed to even trying to fathom. All I know is I loved magic shows and candy.

At any rate, one year for Easter I caught my mother helping the children decorate Easter eggs with stickers of Barbie and Spiderman, in preparation for the next day's Easter Egg event at church. I let them participate, because they wanted to, and I talked to them about what it meant to them, but again, staying neutral and trying to not to force or enforce my own belief system.

My girl, there at the table decorating her own eggs, asked my frazzled mother if there was a such thing as good witches. Flustered by trying to juggle two children's messy decorating abilities, she answered with a quick but warm "yes, of course, sweetie!"

She quickly did a double take on herself and corrected herself with a "Wait, what? No! No, there is no such thing as a good witch! Witchcraft is of the Devil!"

My daughter began to make it a point to remind her grandmother that my ex-wife (mother of both children) dabbled in the arcane arts, which turned into a very awkward and torrential conversation, with my mother now forced to walk on pastel eggshells.

I took the wheel, quickly pointed out to my daughter that even in the Holy Christian Bible it remarks that each has their own personal relationship with "God", and turned the conversation on the decorations at hand.

"Ma, you remember when you scolded me for decorating my handmade crosses with cartoon stickers? Well, how is this any different?"

This was apparently a very conflicted notion for her, and I regret bringing it up that way as she immediately burst into tears and drove off to have an emergency meeting with her pastor.

We made amends, agreed to leave the parenting to me, and began healing that ordeal. One of the ways my children and I did so was with the onset of a new tradition just for them and I. Now, every year, at random times throughout the year (sometimes nearer Summer solstice and sometimes nearer St. Patrick's, but never on a set schedule), we are visited by the slightly deranged Easter Monkey, who brings many of the same expected gifts of the Easter Bunny, but without the religious connotations with histories dating back to various Pagan practices as well as its standard Christian overtones. The Easter Monkey also always brings some kind of lesson, something that educationally and artfully addresses the family's biggest moral quandaries of the year thus far while looking to the positives of the remainder of the year to come; even ma participates now. That wily Easter Monkey also always has some mischievous simian trick or another up sleeves, as well, but always light-hearted. Sometimes the Easter Monkey doesn't even yield any presents of toys or candy, just the warmth of another holiday and its magic.

We may be weird with strange unorthodoxes, but I'm blessed to have open and free-spirited children quick to accept the concept of a strange family tradition free of religious insistence one way or another. May not be your cup of tea, but its special to us. Maybe one year the Easter Monkey will visit you, if you're slightly unlucky but mostly lucky.

At any rate, to me, the holidays are especially magical in what seems to be universal acceptance for other walks of life and faith, strangers, and even at times those we normally reserve the sourest of animosities for.

Whether you still believe in jolly old St. Nick or a deranged old St. Todd, whether you are Presbyterian or Wiccan with Zen Buddhist tendencies, and whether you are near or far from those you love, may your holidays last beyond just today and may you be blessed with warmth, peace, love and understanding.

Merry Christmas
-J

[tarbaby]

I saw the claw of Satan strike that child´s soul and try to kill the idea of God in it. Why should I mind that? Was the idea of God alive at all in me? No: if you mean the traditional idea. But that was the symbol, vague, variable, mythical, anthropomorphic; the symbol for an overwhelming reality, a symbol that named and unified in human speech the incalculable powers on which our destiny depends. To observe, record, and measure the method by which these powers operate is not to banish the idea of God; it is what the Hebrews called meditating on his ways. The modern hatred of religion is not, like that of the Greek philosophers, a hatred of poetry, for which they wished to substitute cosmology, mathematics, or dialectic, still maintaining the reverence of man for what is superhuman. The modern hatred of religion is hatred of the truth, hatred of all sublimity, hatred of the laughter of the gods. It is puerile human vanity trying to justify itself by a lie.

George Santayana, Persons and Places, Capítulo XXVII. Critical
http://marquesdetamaron.blogspot.com/20 ... ayana.html

Thank you for the prose James. I saved it to my hard drive and would like to reply further later. The Santayana quote came to mind for some reason.

[Doreen Peri]

That was beautiful, James! Merry Christmas!

[short timer]

I agree Doreen, it was beautiful. And powerfull too I thought. Clear and precise prose if I am any judge. I wanted to reply to James in more detail but I was afraid I might start to ramble all over my childhood.

James I been thinking about your post for almost 24 hours now and my thoughts are starting to come together.

More later but for now let me just say that(—?)
I am sorry I forgot to wish you a merry Christmas,

[dadio]

I am impressed by the prose here. Captured well.

[neologistic]

Thanks everyone, sorry that I forgot to reply. short timer, feel free to ramble, I'm no stranger to ramblings. Happy holidays, everyone

[Steve Plonk]

Great piece! Sublimity is in the eyes of the beholder...Don't forget "The Good Witch of the North" in the WIZARD OF OZ. Santa Claus is a bewitching character, but has been in popular culture for much longer...There is supposedly "White Magic" and "Black Magic" dichotomy as in days of yore...

[happytrails]

Well, James. Now you've gone and done it again. Made me smile and cry all at the same time. Just as you have always managed to do. (except when I got lost in your zenishness) Remember when I'd just leave a row of ?????? in response to some of your poems?

Well, no question about this. This is one of the most touching Christmas stories I have ever read. Thank you, Dear James. I love it and I just may steal your idea of random celebrations. I will have to think on that. Do some planning.