Sunday Musings – Christmas 2016
Christmas is a quiet season for me. Since I am past the age of having young children and do not have grandchildren or live close to nieces and nephews there is no one for whom I need to stay up late assembling gifts which seemed like a good idea when purchased or who drag me out of bed after only a modicum of sleep to see what Santa has brought.
I love the fact that this is the season of hearing from friends. I even love those generic letters bringing all the latest news of children, spouses, parents, and others. Some of those letters remind me that I obviously have sat on my duff all year while others devoted 23 hours a day working for peace, feeding the hungry, building new Habitat homes, digging sewer systems in some remote area, reading books of some import on a daily basis, and writing three new books while raising five grandchildren and restoring a house which was featured in the Architectural Digest. I love and admire these people even if they do make me feel as if the only possible moral action is for me to kill myself and to quit taking up space and breathing air which could be used by someone with a tiny bit of ambition to improve the world.
Although I enjoy giving gifts all year long the thought of shopping for just the right gift at this time of the year for people who want or need nothing feeds my thought of suicide. Yesterday I thought that perhaps I “should” pick up a little hostess gift to take to dinner last night, but I ended up visiting with the nose ring young man at the clothing store where I purchase my grown-up clothes. We had quite a pleasant conversation about pursuing one’s passion and not focusing on making more money than one needs for the basics. Oh, well, the hostess had to make due with a small loaf of the cranberry, orange nut bread I made the other day.
Christmas Eve service at the Cathedral included many Christmas Hymns which brought a smile to my heart as long as I listened to the tune and not the words. I did momentarily think about the morphing of the ministry of that irresponsible carpenter into a highly ritualistic, exclusionary club which featured rich fabric, exquisite pieces of stain glass, and priceless paintings. I took notice of the nearly full page of the program devoted to detailing who was welcome at the table for the celebration of Holy Communion. It seems as a non-Catholic I was not one of the chosen. I was pleased that there were a variety of people in terms of age and that the sea of whiteness was occasionally interspersed with a person of color.
I had to remind myself that I was there to repair my soul and not critique that of others. Well, actually I had to remind myself about every 30 seconds. Still I did manage to quiet in my mind intermittently enough to continue the rather long gratitude list which I had started following joining friends for dinner at their house.
Now, the table is set for a simple meal later this afternoon. I have communicated with various family members and friends via text, email and snail mail.
Some friends are celebrating Chanukah or Hanukah - commemorating the rededication of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem at the time of the Maccabean Revolt against the Seleuid Empire.
Many others will be celebrating the most holy of holy celebrations in many parts of the United States - the game of football in which boys of various ages seems to delight in playing with a little brown ball so they can affectionately wrestle with each other. (Admittedly, many friends have told me that I am missing the point of the game.) It does seem as if the more the congregants shout out orders for action the more the boys get to wrestle.
As millions of people starve, others of us will finish a meal while exclaiming that we ate much too much.
Tons of wrapping paper, paper plates and Styrofoam cups will be disposed of as well the containers in which various refreshments arrived; leftovers will be sent home with the single guests and all will be restored to the former state.
Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukah. Hail to the footballers.
Written December 25, 2016
Christmas is a quiet season for me. Since I am past the age of having young children and do not have grandchildren or live close to nieces and nephews there is no one for whom I need to stay up late assembling gifts which seemed like a good idea when purchased or who drag me out of bed after only a modicum of sleep to see what Santa has brought.
I love the fact that this is the season of hearing from friends. I even love those generic letters bringing all the latest news of children, spouses, parents, and others. Some of those letters remind me that I obviously have sat on my duff all year while others devoted 23 hours a day working for peace, feeding the hungry, building new Habitat homes, digging sewer systems in some remote area, reading books of some import on a daily basis, and writing three new books while raising five grandchildren and restoring a house which was featured in the Architectural Digest. I love and admire these people even if they do make me feel as if the only possible moral action is for me to kill myself and to quit taking up space and breathing air which could be used by someone with a tiny bit of ambition to improve the world.
Although I enjoy giving gifts all year long the thought of shopping for just the right gift at this time of the year for people who want or need nothing feeds my thought of suicide. Yesterday I thought that perhaps I “should” pick up a little hostess gift to take to dinner last night, but I ended up visiting with the nose ring young man at the clothing store where I purchase my grown-up clothes. We had quite a pleasant conversation about pursuing one’s passion and not focusing on making more money than one needs for the basics. Oh, well, the hostess had to make due with a small loaf of the cranberry, orange nut bread I made the other day.
Christmas Eve service at the Cathedral included many Christmas Hymns which brought a smile to my heart as long as I listened to the tune and not the words. I did momentarily think about the morphing of the ministry of that irresponsible carpenter into a highly ritualistic, exclusionary club which featured rich fabric, exquisite pieces of stain glass, and priceless paintings. I took notice of the nearly full page of the program devoted to detailing who was welcome at the table for the celebration of Holy Communion. It seems as a non-Catholic I was not one of the chosen. I was pleased that there were a variety of people in terms of age and that the sea of whiteness was occasionally interspersed with a person of color.
I had to remind myself that I was there to repair my soul and not critique that of others. Well, actually I had to remind myself about every 30 seconds. Still I did manage to quiet in my mind intermittently enough to continue the rather long gratitude list which I had started following joining friends for dinner at their house.
Now, the table is set for a simple meal later this afternoon. I have communicated with various family members and friends via text, email and snail mail.
Some friends are celebrating Chanukah or Hanukah - commemorating the rededication of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem at the time of the Maccabean Revolt against the Seleuid Empire.
Many others will be celebrating the most holy of holy celebrations in many parts of the United States - the game of football in which boys of various ages seems to delight in playing with a little brown ball so they can affectionately wrestle with each other. (Admittedly, many friends have told me that I am missing the point of the game.) It does seem as if the more the congregants shout out orders for action the more the boys get to wrestle.
As millions of people starve, others of us will finish a meal while exclaiming that we ate much too much.
Tons of wrapping paper, paper plates and Styrofoam cups will be disposed of as well the containers in which various refreshments arrived; leftovers will be sent home with the single guests and all will be restored to the former state.
Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukah. Hail to the footballers.
Written December 25, 2016
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