The Sixth Dance of Christmas: Half Epiphany on Highway 79

The Sixth Dance of Christmas: 

Half Epiphany on Highway 79

Prologue:
I'm sitting in the Super 8 in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, tired of driving but I'm scared of dying and old man river . . . .

Oops. Sorry. 

Obviously too much coffee 

plus all that pan dulce from Austin 

that Missy and I bought last night 

and that I've been eating in the car all day 

(that was supposed to make it home to Indiana).
More about that later.

So, the sixth dance of Christmas would be . . . . ?
Let's see, the Roman C's say today is the Feast of the Holy Family.
Sorry, but that's just overkill. 

And my church just says, First Sunday after Christmas. Meh. 

I thought of maybe doing some Dan Brown thing like: 

"Six geese a'laying: the hidden meaning." 

But then it hit me like a ginger pig in a Mexican bakery--
Today is half-way to Epiphany.

Those wise men, kings, magi, whatever, whoever, 

have been on the road at least six of the twelve days of Christmas,  

and apparently, just like this year with our cold snap and such, 

a cold coming they had of it.

But halfway to Epiphany is still only half way, 

and if the Epiphany is sort of one of those "infinity" moments,

and if we can trust Zeno and his paradox, 

then those wise, kings, magi, whatever, whoever, 

very possibly still have an awfully long way to go.

And, probably, they need my advice, as do most of you, 

although I'm letting you go to see Django Unhinged, 

Les Miserable, and Jackson's Hobbit without any critical comments. 

This time.

Today I began an unsentimental sacramental journey home 

from my native home,
and I'm doing it in a specific intentional way, 

all on what we now call "back roads,"
in honor of those who seek Epiphany,
who maybe are half way there (whether they know it or not),
who maybe need some last minute advice 

or even a model (c'est moi!) to imitate.

Believe me friends, 

I don't take a step in this crazy dance without consulting my mentors.
Unfortunately, all of them are dead, 

but that shouldn't disqualify them for anything but public office.
So my steps aren't really mine.
And if this time warp works, those magic magi (whatever, whoever) 

steps were not only not theirs alone,
but are mine as well. 

And yours. If you will just pay better attention.

So here it is.
Six Simple Steps on the Road to Epiphany. Or, Dancing towards the Star.

1. Ask directions from local people.
Listen to a real person tell you which way to go.

 

If possible, get conflicting directions from different people.
Then tell them a joke.
Ask them again which way to turn at the Sphinx.
Also ask about where to get good hummous.

Don't believe Google maps about anything.
If you must use a map, use one of those you found in the basement from when you cleaned out your dad's stuff. 

Half the roads aren't on it and you're liable to get good and lost.

If you already know what you're doing 

and exactly where you're going,
what are you going to see God for?

2. Rest your camel occasionally.
Walk with him. Get to know him. Feed him part of your protein bar.
Baby Jesus and "The Holy Family" will wait for you.
And he'll be happy that you took good care of your camel.
If He isn't, take back the presents.
Give them to PETA instead.

3. Do as I did today. Do NOT take the interstate.
What's your hurry?
Do you really only want to see every Wal-Mart and Dick's Sporting Goods between Austin and Bethlehem?

Being kings and all,
you might kind of like seeing all those bail bond places 

next to the court house in Shreveport.
You might also take away some lessons on the mutability of earthly civilizations when you see its downtown 

that looks like a bombed out war zone
(but is really just another victim of Wal-mart and Dick's Sporting Goods and First Baptist Church who all moved out by the interstate).

Stop and wait for trains. 
I stopped and waited for trains three times today.
Twice in Shreveport, and I'm pretty sure it was the same train both times.
You'll miss seeing those trains if you take the interstate.
As Isaiah writes, those who wait for trains will be more successful than they who waiteth not.

Besides, at some point, you might find a wonderful Mexican bakery along the way, you can talk to the little nine-year-old girl, ask her how much Ginger Pigs are, then barter with her trying to get three for the price of two, laugh, and leave her a big tip. 

Don't worry about the labor laws this time. 

You want her home watching TV or surfing the web instead of being with her mom in the store?
Really? For wise men, you could stand to use your brains a bit more.

4. Do NOT eat at a restaurant that would be just the same if you were in Austin, Shreveport, Pine Bluff, Jerusalem, or Fort Wayne.
If they have arches, hand out crowns, or feature a picture of a Colonel, ride your camel right on past.
Look for names like Joe's or Sara's or even Bubba's.

Alternatively, pick blackberries and make a crumble (easier than a pie).

Or ask the people at the Super 8 in Pine Bluff where you can get the best local breakfast.
Or, even better, stand out in a narrow alley way and sing until they give you something from the local bakery.

 

Say you are a pilgrim.

5. You have a lot of spare time on this long journey.
Use it wisely.
Not by thinking about your investments. 

Or by making a checklist of the appointments you will need to meet when you get back home. 

I mean back in the Orient R or wherever it is you live 

and are kings, wise men, or magi, whatever, whoever.

 

Don't worry unnecessarily about those credits that didn't count towards your major or, for that matter,
what you are going to do with that philosophy degree anyway.

No, as I said. Use. Your. Time. Wisely. 

For example, wonder why you didn't go off on a crazy journey like this sooner.
Make up a song about your crazy journey following yonder star (throw in a funny line about a cigar if you can think of one).

Especially, think about what you're going to do after you see God, if you're going to be allowed to live that is.

Just in case you aren't (going to live,that is),

 take a day off and tell those other kings, wise men, magi about the girl you love (though you know it will never work out ) and about your favorite family table game and about the first time you saw a camel being born (or a human, whichever makes you cry when telling about it).

Pretend to be Swedish for several hours 

and try to convince all the local merchants with your bad Swedish accent that you are really a Swedish tourist who is just dressed like a king, 

wise man, magus, whatever, whoever from the Orient R. 

Since you may very well be exploding in about a week, 

sing a Rhianna song at the top of your lungs
and dance like it's 1999.

6. Consider well what gifts you will give the baby when you arrive (and find the place satisfactory).
Gold is good.
Frankincense is smelly.
Myrrh . . . well, I guess it's an acquired test.

What about a Ginger Pig? A cockatiel? A ukulele (He will grow into it)?
Truthfully, regardless of what you give, fear not, we will find a way to make it symbolic.

The most important thing is that you make this journey.
Follow in my steps, though I'm only halfway home myself.
Bear some gifts. Traverse afar. Take care of your camels.
Do NOT accept any invitations from local dignitaries. 

I'm serious. Look at my eyes. 

And, one other thing, remember that your heart will probably get sucked out of your chest at some point on your pilgrimage.
Don't worry, that's as it should be.
And, in addition, learn the lesson of all Epiphanies--
namely, that you aren't really kings and you aren't really wise.

But you may very well be magic. 

The Fifth Dance of Christmas: L'Estampie de Seinte Thomas a' Becket

The Fifth Dance of Christmas: 

L'Estampie de Seinte Thomas a' Becket

This day is the dancing day of our man, the saint, Tom Becket,

about whom much has been written, a few good bits here and there.
A London boy who made good,

but he did not make himself, my masters.
He was the man to whom things were done,
and the man who returned to have yet more things done to him,
and through him.

Young Henry Rex made him Chancellor, in the New Year of 1155,
the Lord God made him Archbishop in June of 1164
(some bishop had made him a priest the day before), 
made a pawn by Pope Alexander in his precious cockfight with the English crown.

Made a martyr on this day, the 29th of December, in 1170--

not his own doing, one doesn't make oneself a martyr,
whatever old T. S. Eliot might have to say about the matter.

I said, he was made a martyr by four who might just as easily have
stepped out of a comedy--

Dick, Hugh, and Bill, and Reginald FitzUrse (no comment).
Those loyal knights thought for sure they'd grab some gold, some soft retirements,
and the eternal thanks of the English people by scratching the
surly King's backside with their bloody swords.

So be it, my darlings.
He stood proudly in his cathedral, the unreliable interested sources tell us,
Performed what certainly appeared to be sa dernière danse, a solo estampie,
losing a bit of skull, spilling his brains, and, one can only hope,
praying for his enemies as he fell.

They stripped the body, 

discovered the hair shirt,
cursed the King, 

notified the Pope,
and worried, unnecessarily it turns out, about the future.

And so, the end. 

The end which comes to all . . . .
except for martyrs.
Who have a habit--
nasty, I suppose, to kings,
fortunate, I guess, to those who deal in sacred merchandise
(like the silver pilgrim badge on my bookcase)--
of returning and having things done to them
over and over again.

So with our blessed Tom, who skipped away to France,
then capered back for no good earthly reason,
but just in the nick of time to die.
Who, then, only three days later, on New Year's Day,
started working miracles, 

if those Canterbury windows can be believed.

Whose blood and brains soaked into the very stones
where his once and future friend, the king,
soon would kneel, repent, wear his own sweet stylish sackcloth,
and say "thank you, Tom" for each of eighty lovely Papal lashes.

Who circled back in his stately saintly steps, 
then again and again each time his shrine grew larger and more ornate,
where the hundred thousands sought his bloody blessing,
then again as the raison d'etre of a very fine long poem
(which was none too fond of monks I hear)
until Henry the Fat squelched him once and for all in 1538,
strewing his bones and liver and such as far as Friesland, so they say,
proclaiming that no subject of the king would ever again be Head of Holy Church.

A few days later, though, it was whispered that yet another Henry might be wrong.

And the rest is history, as they say, 

or as close to it as the English  (and, some would say, the church).
care to be.

Well, perhaps we need also to mention the rather frumpy Becket art--
Eliot's Murderous choruses ("stain the sky/shock the monkey/I'm so scared of being holy"),
Richard Burton's brooding, dare we say, pouty hunk of a saint,
and, especially, the opera I'm writing at the moment,
hoping to have it out in theaters by Christmas 2071 (the 851st anniversary),
sort of an inspirational cross between Les Miz and Ben Hur,
three hours long and sung entirely in one aria by none other than Russell Crowe.

Where was I?

The fact is, and this is the greatest irony,
one pretty much lost on every Henry,
but known by every Thomas. More
martyrs are made by our need for them
than by anything kings and devils can plot against them.

We, the would-be's, stand (and dance) with those who return to stand (and dance),
especially when the powers confuse themselves with all that matters.
So, Sir Kings,
stomp this double-edged sworddance--
The only way to stamp out a martyr is to make one.
And, unfortunately for you, vice versa.

Here is an example of <a real Estampie>