Merry Un-Christmas!

This one's for everyone who doesn't celebrate Christmas. I know there are a lot of you. Some of you celebrate something else instead, while some just don't do the whole winter-holiday thing.

Photo: internationalsupermarketnews.com

Some of my Christian friends would want me to try to pull you in. They'd want me to talk about Christmas this week, and nothing but Christmas. They're among those shoppers you hear in supermarkets, replying to a cheerful greeting of "Happy Holidays" with an indignant "Merry CHRISTMAS!" I love them, but when I hear that, I cringe, for two reasons:

First, no matter how strongly someone believes in Christmas, yelling at a store clerk like a petulant child probably, I'm guessing, isn't going to help the cause.

Second, there's nothing in the Christian Bible designating late December as Christmas. In fact, it puts the date of Jesus' birth much earlier in the year and never mentions anything about observing a holiday for it. Christmas is pure tradition, stemming from a European cultural background in solstice holidays and the desire of many Christians to celebrate one of the pivotal events of our history. There's no more basis in the Bible or in logic for insisting on "Merry Christmas!" in late December than there would be for yelling "Jolly Dove Day!" every August, in celebration of the day Noah released a dove from the ark in search of dry land after the great flood.

Photo: cllctr.com

But in a broader sense, we all celebrate together. If you live in the northern quarter of the planet, this week is when the days finally stop getting shorter and start getting longer again. It's a physical reminder of something we can make real in our own lives and relationships: the theme of renewal, of new light and the hope of new life.

With that in mind, no matter where you live and what you celebrate or don't celebrate, I'd like to wish you a joyful and life-renewing solstice season.

Cradlesmash

Sharing a short story/poem today:

The sculptor made a ball of mud, injected it with magma and covered it in mist.
He poured in place the pools of cool and soothing blue.
He formed the fields of cold, white pillow.
He painted the surface of the mud with succulent cushions of many-colored green.
Then he crafted tiny, fleshy things and placed them on the ball of mud, gently, as they were very delicate.

Photo: www.astrosociety.org

He took a piece of dusty rock and twirled it in the sky, that the pools of blue might play for his little fleshy ones a comforting lullaby.
He took a handful of fire and hung it in the sky, that his sensitive fleshy ones might learn of the warmth of their maker's heart.
He took more fire and hung it, too, in the sky, in a thousand, thousand places, that his tiny fleshy ones might learn of the depth of their maker's thoughts toward them.
Then he infused his fleshy ones with his very own breath.
And the fleshy ones despised the ball of mud.
They closed their ears to the lullaby, and it became for them a crashing throb.
They closed their hearts to warmth, and the handful of fire became for them a fearful thing.
They closed their minds to depth, and the fires became for them signs of hopelessness and futility.
The sculptor's delicate fleshy ones fought against the pools.
And against the strength of the pools, which he had placed there to carry them, they shattered themselves.
They fought against the pillows.
And in the cold of the pillows, which he had placed there to refresh them, they froze themselves.
They fought against the cushions.
And against the ribs of the cushions, which he had placed there to shelter them, they broke themselves.
But the sculptor did not take back the dusty rock.
He did not extinguish the handful of fire.
He did not sweep away the multitude of fires.
He spoke tenderly to his fleshy ones.
He implored them to stop destroying themselves.
Some of them stopped, but rejected his efforts to repair them. They said they were strong and independent.
Others also stopped, but taught their neighbors that it was the sculptor who had damaged them. They said it was punishment for breaking the rules.
Just a few of his cherished little fleshy ones submitted to his repair.
And those few began to hear the lullaby,
Began to learn of warmth and depth,
Began to let themselves be cradled by the work of their sculptor's hands.