PILGRIM WINTER

Pilgrim Winter

pale, clear but not that clear,
subdued, muted, and surprisingly cold,
in this bleached out less than blooming place, mid-January

some grass is crunchy to my boots
the other blades just cold and not so green
and those tufts of ruddy life rising up between state road 5 and the farmers' fields

a world of earth tones made earthier
by the brief wash of early winter
and this harder but not quite bitter cold after last week's necessary thaw

pale, I say, but mottled, textured
altogether lovely in that subtle wintry way
like her fine skin's surface, with those freckles that promise someday cancer

but now sing the beauty of shading
against a surface lit by this fading light
just short of dusk, just outside your window, just before you call it a day

the sky, glowing but not glorious,
not at all brilliant, but a softer blue
than you remember being broadcast by the prodigal realm of nature

except something you looked into once
the only cool, only soft things
on a steamy August afternoon just off the path in a little patch of shade

this day? call it a day for rambling,
for walking, remembering, composing,
for not forgetting how terribly sad the surface of this place can be

so much given to stubble and shadow
and that killing blast of cold
she (I mean the world) sends as an answer to our pilgrim souls

Ironic Advent Meditation #21: Final Advice for Baby Jesus

Ironic Advent Meditation #21: Final Advice for Baby Jesus

I was walking around the icy-cold block with Rorie a little while ago.
Rorie the dog, not Rorie the Gilmore Girl.
And while I'm digressing, let me urge you friend,
if you are in the bleak midwestern midwinter, to get outside this evening--
walk the dog, walk the cat, walk your own fat . . . legs.
The sky is clear, Orion dazzles,
as in "Peaceful Easy Feeling," there are "a thousand stars all around,"
and a slightly more than half moon is glittering off the frozen snow.
I have learned two things only--do not reject a hug (unless you are absolutely certain that the hugger is a vampire; if not, it's worth the risk) and
do not neglect the world when she sparkles (screens that sparkle can be neglected without hurting yourself).
So, do yourself a favor. And thank me for it later.

As Rorie and I walked, and as she stopped every five steps or so
to sniff the sparkly world,
we came upon a midnight clear upon a standard outdoor plastic nativity set,
this one a rather stripped down model, eliding the animals so to speak
(a gross misrepresentation of the incarnation, I would argue),
and featuring just a lit-up Mary, lit-up Joseph, a very bright shiny star above,
and a little low something in the middle covered with snow.

Now Mary and Joseph, being, on the whole, rather vertical, or perpendicular, one might say,
had all but shed whatever snow fell upon them yesterday.
The wind and slightly warmer temps today helped, I'm sure.
But where one would expect to see Baby Jesus, lying on some sort of plastic manger,
lower to the ground and fixed at the exact spot where the inspirational gazes of the plastic virgin and plastic carpenter cross, all you could see was a pile of snow.
I hope I don't need to explain why, because this is already getting longer than I hoped.

So, I decided it was sort of my duty to go dust off the snow from the manger,
uncover the babe, the son of Mary, to ensure that
the millions who flock to my neighborhood in smalltown Indiana
could see plastic Baby Jesus in all his Christmas glory.
(For a moment I wondered what those Chinese factory workers
who make these babies by the hundreds of thousands
think about this symbol of "the true meaning of Christmas,"
but then I realized that I've already exceeded my limit
of three digressions).

Slowly, reverently, with little irony, I moved toward the holy family.
But Rorie blocked my path.
She has always been a weird little Westie,
though I've never known her to engage in prophetic utterance.
But somehow I knew just what she was trying to tell me:
" Do. Not. Uncover. Baby. Jesus.
This. Is. The. True. Meaning. Of. Christmas."
Dog. Punctuation. It. Kills. Me.

I knew better than to try to engage Rorie in some further Bakhtin-style dialogue.
She just looked at me with those eyes that said,
"What. Is. An. Epiphany. Worth. In. Terms. Of. Dogfood?"

But doggone-it (sorry), Rorie was right.
Getting covered up by some snow would be the least of Baby Jesus' worries
if he went ahead with his crazy plan to take on skin
and become a featherless biped with a soul.

Time was running out.
Two more days it would be too late;
midnight mass would be starting somewhere.
So, out of respect to the shining stars, the sparkling snow, the angel choirs,
and Rorie the oracular West Highland Terrier,
I hereby give MY LAST MINUTE ADVICE TO BABY JESUS.

"*Baby Jesus, if you go through with this, you might get covered up with snow. It's pretty some of the time. It's cold all of the time. And some people might think that this is just a story about a star, a pretty girl, a carpenter, and a pile of snow.

*Baby Jesus, if you go through with this, people will make plastic "statues" (well, I hate to use the same word that we use for those beautiful Greek things in the museums) of you, they will sell them in Wal-Mart, they will make them in China (which is officially atheistic!!), and they will put a lightbulb inside of you which could get uncomfortable. I'm telling you Jesus, this will be a piece of cheap you know what.

*Baby Jesus, if you go through with this. Your parents will teach you to eat those animals that are sharing their barn with you tonight. Just sayin'.

*Baby Jesus, if you go through with this, you will go through several difficult stages. The swaddling stage. The trying to figure out your mission stage while also trying to figure out girls and zits. The years of public ministry. Sound glorious? How does sleeping with fishermen sound? Sure, there will be some good times. But then some other stuff will happen. I don't have the heart to tell you about right now; it might mess up the Christmas Spirit and all.

*Baby Jesus, if you go through with this, a couple of those shepherds, or people just like them, just like the crowds that will follow and that will lap up your teaching like Rorie does leftover soup, will end up calling you names and worse. They will be chanting some pretty awful things. Believe me; you will wish you were just covered in snow.

*Baby Jesus, if you got through with this, you are going to be expected by a lot of people to lead a revolution to overthrow the corrupt political powers of your day. You need to be prepared to do that. In case you don't plan to do that, you need to be prepared to answer all the questions and complaints over the next bazillion years as to why you didn't. Those Romans could be nasty. So, the complaints will be . . . kind of understandable. Don't you think?

*Baby Jesus, if you go through with this, there's going to be a church. They will do some awesome things. Some lovely things. And they will do some other things too. Things that would shock you if I told you. As Rorie might say--"They. Will. Drag. Your. Name. In. The. Mud."

*Baby Jesus, if you go through with this, some people will think that God loves them enough to come here to live with us and the animals, to wear our animal skin, to show us how to be what we really could be. Some will even think you came to show us that we can start over after we've made a mess.

*Baby Jesus, if you go through with this, some people like me, who are still trying to figure you out after a lifetime, will write Ironic Advent Meditations pretending to give you advice.

*Baby Jesus, if you go through with this, no matter how much good you do and how much love you share . . . there will be NASCAR. And the Victoria's Secret Christmas Special.

*Baby Jesus, if you go through with this, people will think that following you pretty much involves "liking" you on facebook. They won't want to get covered up with snow, sleep with fishermen, get called ugly names, and some of those other things I'd rather not mention."

I don't know if this will do any good or not. But my conscience is clear. He can't say that Rorie. And. I. Didn't. Warn. Him.

(Note: Rorie misses you Jennifer Ricke and Lauren Ricke, but she is being helpful).

**Update: Rorie the dog, died in Jennifer's loving arms, December 2017. She. Is. Missed.

Ironic Advent Meditation #22: No Room at America's Best Value Inn

Ironic Advent Meditation #22: No Room at America's Best Value Inn

Oh man, I really could write a good piece on the topic of Advent Journey if I had the time and energy. I don't. But here is an outline of amazing things so you will know what you are missing. Somewhat like my syllabus for Honors Senior Seminar one year which I think was titled: Honors Senior Seminar: Some Things.

1. I have journeyed all day on this the penultimate day of Advent (unless Christmas Eve is the penultimate, and I realize I may be assuming too much by using that word on Facebook) to find myself in Little Rock, Arkansas at America's Best Value Inn and Suites.

LET THIS BE A LESSON TO ME. I WROTE WHAT ENDED UP BEING A PRETTY GOOD MEDITATION HERE (MODESTY BE DINGED), FUNNY AND SAD AND IRONICALLY HOPEFUL BUT I DELETED IT ACCIDENTALLY OF COURSE AT 2 A.M. WITHOUT SAVING IT. NOW, OBVIOUSLY, I'M SIMPLY TOO TIRED TO RECREATE IT. SAD BUT PROBABLY A GOOD ADVENT LESSON; I'LL LET YOU KNOW IF I DISCOVER WHAT THAT LESSON IS.

Ironic Advent Meditation #23 (Christmas Eve): Redemption Wail

Ironic Advent Meditation #23 (Christmas Eve): Redemption Wail

"Advent is waiting . . . waiting in silence," she said.
I said, no, it’s waiting and whining,
if it’s anything at all.

You can’t sing "Let all mortal flesh keep SILENCE" and mean it,
for example.
You might quietly whisper--
"Please visit us mysterious far off hidden god," though it
strikes me as strange.

But the O-O part in "O Come O Come Emmanuel" is
at least slightly aggressive (non-passive), like
"what's the deal with the fancy name if I have to
veni, veni, veni for four weeks, four hundred years, forever?"

(I know of course that the O is not in the
O-riginal Latin;
I mean, obviously, that's why they call that language
DEAD.) Jesus didn't speak it; Jerome did. I like Jesus, not Jerome.

Whatever, this sarcasm just begs the question
whether all this hocuspocus means anything at all anyway.
Or if it's just a kind of Methodist Youth Fellowship Twister game with wreaths, and readings, and candles
that leaves you even more frustrated when you're done
because it's still not what you really wanted when you took your shoes off in the first place
and got out of your chair.
I mean, assuming we really want something.

I thought all this while catching forty winks or trying to,
wrung out and dizzy from a day of grading papers
(apologies to those who do real work),
in a room where someone one day risked a lot
to talk to me about some things that mattered--
confusion, cuts, despair,
and love kept silent through a ridiculous long dark night.

But wounds are mouths,
and mouths, of every size and making,
are the way we have of shaping a hope made audible.
I mean, mouthing what we want--sobbing, shrill, shouting.
I mean, assuming we really want something.

Advent is waiting.
But is it worth it? Is it really . . . something, anything at all?
Or just this period we pretend that waiting isn't all there is?
Because it's nothing worth the wreath it's wrapped in,
if it's not, at bottom, a loud wail for "Where the hell is my redemption?"

Back to grading. But just this:
that once mouthy friend is moving on--
with all kinds of questions, angers, and it's so hards,
all sorts of don't have this quite figured out and will I ever?
yet found there's something not quite hiding deep beneath the doubt,
something wanted more than one should ever politely say,
perhaps Love, still suggesting love, after a ridiculous long dark night.

Ironic Advent Meditation #2,378: Donkey and Friends.

Ironic Advent Meditation #2,378: Donkey and Friends (December 24)

My Advent Journey culminated with a journey. From Indiana to Texas. Today I drove all the way from Little Rock to the hills outside Bastrop, where someone in our family has had a "country place" since what seems like forever. We swam, fished, played, and unwound on this same property when I was ten years old. We were still doing it tonight. My brother Gordon even caught a small fish today. His daughter, Katy caught a bigger one. I made it just in time to be fed, get a present, lead some carols on the ukelele, and spend some time with Gordo, his wife Margaret, his daughters Claire and Katy, my cousin Uncle Bubba (don't even ask) and his wife Carol (they own the property and the house), their son John III, his wife Joy, and their son Harry. I did not have time to walk in the back of the property and visit the goats and donkeys.

But that's OK, because then I drove to my sister Missy's. Missy has one animal for each day of Christmas. Two dogs--Max and Rosie. A cat named Charles--after our dad. Two turtles--Luci and Desi. Four hens (none of them French as far as I know)--May, Sweety Pie (or something like that), and two golden ones both named Goldy. A rooster named Jimi Hendrix. Two parakeets (mates) named yellow bird and blue bird. And a cockatiel named Eagle. OK, that's thirteen. I know that there are supposedly only twelve days of Christmas. But I've never figured out how to count that, since it is thirteen days from December 25 to January 6, the feast of Epiphany. I suppose you aren't supposed to count Epiphany but either we will have to this year or . . . they will have to lengthen the calendar (which would only be fair to the animals).

Actually, I met most of the animals just a little while ago, when we got back from midnight mass. The chickens I won't see until the morning, but I knew them all anyway. But it was just a little while ago, about 2 A.M. (it's OK, we aren't getting up for another four hours), when she asked me, "do you want to meet the turtles." Well, I just drove 1200 miles, plus I just went to midnight mass, and I think I've done my duty to family and the little lord Jesus. So I said, not really, not now. To her credit, Missy didn't pout, but I'm pretty sure Desi or Lucy (not sure which is which) threw a real hissy fit. Or was just splashing around. Anyway, I thought better of it. Of course I want to meet the turtles. They are obviously the most splendid members of their species since they live with my sister.

Also, though, because it's Christmas Eve, or, by now, early Christmas morning. According to some reports, it is the very day that the mysterious power (of wisdom and love, we hope) responsible for dreaming up and fashioning and putting a stamp of approval upon these strange fellow animals with whom we share the world came down to live with us (and them), taking our skin (and theirs), and sanctifying all of our wild and smelly lives.

I did not hear about this in the sermon at midnight mass, but, then again, I didn't expect to. What I heard, instead, was a rather abstruse comparison of the true understanding of Christmas to three concentric circles each one bigger than the other and something something something. By then Missy and I were laughing enough to possibly disturb anyone who could understand the point (which had something to do with emptying yourself so that the child could be born inside of you as it apparently once was for St. John of the Cross and Thomas Merton or something). We were laughing because, just as the priest was getting ready to preach, I had said "he looks like a computer geek or an astronomer or something." So when he started in on the concentric circles, each one with a different meaning of Christmas, and said "do you follow me?" we kind of got carried away.

That's OK, there is more to the story of the Bethlehem stable than animals. But people always want to jump from discovering the so-called main point of a story to forgetting about all the rest of the story. That's like my students who keep insisting that Don Quixote is mad. Yes, he is, I say. We learned that on page one. Now why did Cervantes write the other 870 pages? Perhaps the story also suggests, for example, that shepherds are important. Maybe just as important as any number of kings or wise men, though, some would say, the story isn't really about either. 

Squint your eyes you highly-evolved mammals and look this way for a sacred minute. Baby Jesus coming to live in a barn and taking on animal skin is the starting point (along with some wonderful Genesis passages) of a theology of animals. Point one. Sheep are important. So are oxen (have I ever really seen an ox?). And donkeys. And, in addition, turtles. Hens who give us brown, speckled eggs with bright orange yolks. And roosters, like Jimi Hendrix, who sing the dawn up from the night and drive those hens crazy (One of the reasons I find factory farms so wicked is that we have created a world in which so many animals no longer have "animal sex.").

Other important things? Cockatiels, like Eagle, who makes a sound imitating a kiss because Missy spends what some (but probably not baby Jesus) might find an inordinate amount of time kissing him. In addition, he whistles badly, because Missy always has. And, of course, cats like Charles, despite my allergies, "for he is of the tribe of Tiger." Highly evolved animals (from one perspective at least) like the priest who believes Christmas is a set of concentric circles.

Also, Max, the chihuahua who trembles in my presence and barks his fear. As if I were an angel or something. I'm not an angel, Max. I'm flesh and blood and poop and skin and hair, like you. Like Jesus.

Well, maybe tonight we should call him by his animal name--Emmanuel.

After mass, Missy and I walked over to the creche to see the baby, the mother, the carpenter, the ox, the sheep, the rooster (wait a minute!?), the shiny star (which indeed was possibly three concentric circles having no blood or guts or genitals). It was just like we were kids back at Our Lady of Mercy. I'm not sure how real animals would have stood up to the thick fog of incense in church tonight. Hopefully we are through with the days of testing the effect on us by torturing them. 

I lit two candles for mammals. And made that little moaning sound that we make sometimes when we want.

Five Things to Do over Christmas at Missy's

Five things to do over Christmas at your sister Missy's:

1. Eat lasagna and salad and yummy ginger beer with a cockatiel named Eagle perched on the back of your chair.

2. Watch "The Way" and tell her all about the Camino de Santiago and hear her say over and over again, "I want to do it. How many days was it again? Should I bring my gun?" Explain that the Second Amendment doesn't apply in Spain. And is frowned upon by fellow pilgrims.

3. Check on the chickens--Goldy I, May, and Lady Bug who are snuggling together below (you can only see one of them), Boo and Goldy II who are in the upper perch. And Jimi Hendrix, the Black Silkie Rooster who sleeps closest to the door, protecting his girls. Check the heater because it's getting down into the 20s tonight. Listen to Missy talk to them for awhile.

4. Show her your pilgrimage pictures while eating ice cream with bananas, fudge, and yet more cookies. Tell yourself it's still Christmas, so feasting is not only allowed, it's expected.

5. Put a mattress on the floor by the fire, grab a down blanket and the pillows from your bed. Make sure the cat, Charles, is not going to escape to make you sneeze all night, find your place in the Hobbit. Say good night.

**originally posted on December 27

Nutella, Communion Chunks, True Love, 

and the Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ 

(and, in addition, Downton Abbey is stupid)

Some things you should know. This is a poem without lining or rhyming or metering or what the structuralists so like to call structure. Also, it is about being in love. Really being in love. Kick your uh-uh love. The kind we (I) never talk about on Freakbook or in blawgs or in polite fiction or in poetry you let anybody read except the person you love (and sometimes not even your Eloise or Abelard). 

In addition, I'm assuming that nobody would read this unless I said something (good or bad) about Downton Abbey because, in the current climate, it has become more important to even my friends than my near-miraculous melding of four topics into one. Be that as it may, here are

       Five things you should know: 

1.  Today is the feast of the Baptism of Jesus Christ. 
2. In the Eastern Church the Theophany is celebrated (last Sunday actually) because father spoke, spirit descended, and son  . . . stood there and got descended on and spoken about. 
3. On a website called Catholiccuture.org they use the word "symbolical." Is that really a word? And, if so, is it necessary? 
4. There was a lot of gross stuff floating around in the communion chalice today (as if drinking blood wasn't gross enough already).
5.  In addition, I have become addicted to Nutella (and the phrase, in addition).             

And so we fall in love. Or we rise in love. Or float in love or swim in love or dance in love or curl up in fetal position in love and say it's all useless and life is hell until you get  a little note that reminds you that this person who shines so brightly (or seems to, obviously you could be wrong)  is still breathing and like Mr. Moreno, my old junior high football coach, used to always say, "as longs as there is breath, there is" . . . . No wait, he said "until the final whistle blows." It was Sister Philomena, my fifth-grade teacher at Our Lady of Mercy, who said the thing about breath. She was so beautiful.
       
Well, I probably shouldn't be quoting her about falling in love. Probably not an appropriate memory. Anyway--whichever, whatever, however--we love, love, love (as Lauren would say). And then we want to do everything and anything we can do (and many things I'm sure that we simply cannot do, for such is a lover's desire according to Plato*) for the beloved, even if it means buying out the entire supply of his or her favorite candy from Kroger's. Maybe even more than one Kroger's, although even Aristotelians find that excessive. So be it.

On the other hand, I'm not Greek. So, you fly across the world to spend a few hours together or you buy lots of candy or you write poetry and songs and make up names to obscure the sweet straight line of love's arrow sticking grotesquely out of your skin or you kill yourself, but no, that would be violating not only the law of God but the teachings of Coach Moreno and Sister Philomena. Although love usually does have that madcrazy dangerous element to it. If memory serves.

So Father Rich pretty much had me at "Epiphanies can happen anywhere. Even bathing." I got out my notebook and started scribbling furiously which isn't that uncommon for me during his sermons. It's just that sometimes I'm writing song lyrics about blue eyes rather than midrashing the texts of the day. I doubt it, but I flatter myself that he's been reading some of my stuff because so many things he said sounded amazingly like my "tenth dance of Christmas" which was a meditation on the incarnational aesthetic of Jackson Pollock. Well, like I said, I flatter myself. It's what I do; ask Edwin, he'll tell you. 

"Jesus comes," Father Rich said, "the Spirit descends, the Father speaks, right there at the river, where people are being washed. There is nothing more material, more physical than taking a bath. You need water, maybe soap. And, especially, you need bodies. 

What you don't need is a church or a temple. Sometimes great things happen at church; we believe that something great happens every time we gather at the altar. But in an incarnational faith, epiphanies can happen anywhere. John said, 'one is coming who will baptize with the spirit and fire.' He said that in the wilderness. And he didn't say people had to go to the temple for it to happen.

"C. S. Lewis said he was surprised by God on the way to the zoo. Maybe God will surprise you while you are bathing. Or cleaning your garage. Or taking a hike. We need to expect epiphanies any day, any place. Heaven can touch earth wherever you are. A voice will speak. The spirit will be there. Just like the baptism of Our Lord. Where you are is where God is. Heaven's location is with you." I wish he had said "while eating nutella" but I'm sure he would have if he only understood.

So now, I'm thinking about that bath water. Jordon river is muddy and cold they say. And, according to the earliest biological authorities, scummy with human dirt, sewage, decaying skin, all the dirt mites that they didn't know about then because they didn't have microscopes (and my view of the incarnation suggests that Jesus could not even see as well as . . . Superman) and all the blood of Roman terror and oppression and crucifixion. This man standing knee deep in our sludge was not only the clean and spotless lamb of God, if the crazy mad stories are true, he somehow WAS God. 

Was this dirty bath part of his eternal plan? Did he sketch this out in ages past? Talk it over with Mother Mary? She probably would have just sung, "Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be/Listen to your momma/let it be." If you know me, even a little, you guess my easy answers to these rhetorical questions. 
       
Jesus came to the dirty water that day to see his wild-eyed cousin. And he came to see us. To be with us. To write his first lines in a crazy love poem/song, to say, "you are my nutella"--I love you enough to bathe with you even though I'm not dirty IN THAT WAY." I mean, Jesus, if you weren't dirty before, you are now. 

Jesus came to the river because we were there. Of course, we were elsewhere too. Well, hold on, the liturgical year is long. Next week, find him partying hard at a wedding at Cana (oh how I would have loved to dance with him). Everywhere he went was an epiphany because he didn't mind being seen, being handled, being talked about, being loved. It's like Christmas all over, but this time he's fully conscious and diving in headfirst, unswaddled.

[Here our author suddenly eschews narration, switches modes, and dramatizes a scene, as the audience oohs and ahs at his flouting of Aristotle]

John: Cousin? What are you doing here?

Jesus: Want to get washed.

John: What? You don't need to be washed?

Jesus: Yes I do.

John: No you don't. I am not worthy to untie your sneakers.  

Jesus: WHAT?

John: I mean you should wash me.

Jesus: I will, I will, eventually. Don't worry, in more than some water camel-skin boy.

John: WHAT?

Jesus: (fixing John with an ironic eyebrow look) For God's sake John, we're having a theophany here this afternoon. Just get me in the water, please.

John: (mumbling) Awight. Whatever you say.

People, even crazy prophets who were his cousin and later his close disciples, just had a terrible time letting Jesus get down and dirty with us. "Don't buy me candy, Jesus, please, at least not that much. It's extravagant. Let's not be extravagant. Aristotle and all. And don't get in the water like you want to be with us. Ewwww!"

[More drama!! More oohs and ahs!]

Jesus: Peter, I'm going to wash your feet.

Peter: Not I, Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldest washeth . . .

Jesus: PETER! Listen in small words. I. Am. Gon. Wash. Yer. Feet.

Peter: Lord. I am Peter. Smelly. Anger problem. You are . . .

Jesus: God . . . . Peter. Listen, if I don't wash your feet, you can't be one of the guys.

Peter: No, no, Jesus, Lord.

Jesus: Yes, yes, Peter, friend. I gon get down and wash yer feet. I want to.  Weren't you there when my cousin and I had this discussion at the river?

Peter: Yes, but I wasn't paying attention.

(Laughter all around)

Maybe Jesus sanctified the waters of baptism forever, as the church fathers have said since . . . since back in those old days when there were church fathers and they said stuff like that. Making the water . . . cleaner. On the other hand, we can think of the epiphany/theophany/mad crazy gesture of bathing with us as part of the kenosis that makes no sense whatsoever (if of course it happened at all) except under the heading of really being in love. 

Not "symbolical." Not restrained. Not fastidious. Not risk-free. Not germ-free. Or rejection-free. Or joy-free. Or surprise-free. 

       
No, I don't mean Jesus wants to be your friend like in those bad songs. Or your boyfriend, your buddy, your pal. It's way beyond that. Way out of control.

We are his nutella. He was wildly extravagantly absurdly crazy about us. It's the only thing that makes sense. 

That girl who did the thing with his feet? That one? I love that girl. She came and poured out the most ridiculously expensive perfume on his feet. My friend Jack actually bought some just so he would know all about it. Spikenard. Now Jack has his own personal Spikenard stash. Says it's super smelly and expensive as hell. He took it to church and they passed it around. I. LOVE. THAT. What a sacrament. Somebody (Judas?) cleared his throat and said, with a look of phony concern, "rather expensive, don't you think, rabbi?" Jesus smiled at him, with love I'll bet, and a mountain of irony and said (although the translations don't quite capture it), "She bought the whole damn store, girlfriend."

So of course, I'm so moved by all this, by Jesus jumping into this epiphany, not shining some mystic light that you have to meditate for several hours and, in addition, fast for a month and a half and sit on a pole in Syria to see, but  jumping in knee-deep to the big muddy and saying, "yes, come on, follow, let's go, be with me, that's why I'm here, the kingdom of heaven is like a man who found some nutella and sold everything he had, including his spikenard, to corner the market on that all that amazing goodness."

And this all somehow seems Eucharistic to me (but then again, everything does; my faith is very . . . edible). I almost rush to the altar, I'm third at the rail (somebody cut in front, but in the spirit of spikenard, I'll extravagantly forgive). And I remember what a friend told me, and what I've been trying to do, about gulping and slurping the sacrament not holding back or taking those little sips I used to take in my holier than me days. 

"The Blood of Christ, shed for you." "Amen." Then, before I drink, I get a good look. There are, I swear, absolute chunks of stuff floating in the chalice. Edwin? Alex? Father Rich? Were you like . . . gargling holy wine?

If I were what's her name, Linda Winter, the great memoirista, I'd make something up here. I'd write about how I looked at that crap in the cup and thought of the incarnation and the one who wasn't too holy or clean or fastidious to jump into the water with us, or to eat from the hands of rough fishermen, or to let himself be touched by the dirty sinful boys and girls for whom he was mad enough to risk everything, and then just swilled it down with a song in my heart. That would of been sweet.
       
But that's not me. I believe in telling the whole truth, whether it makes me look good or not. I looked down into that cup and saw one of those little chunks floating there, and, all of a sudden, it looking amazingly like the face of John the Baptist all wild-eyed and hairy. And the chunk said, in a very manly baptist voice, "be at peace, my son, you can just take a tiny sip, but then make sure you write it up so everyone knows you are a damn hypocrite."  

So, that's what I did. Although, since then, I've been thinking that Edwin, who was raised in England, had probably just had some Nutella with his breakfast toast, and I was stupid not to swill. 
       
Envoy: 

If you love someone, you buy them all the candy or spikenard in the world until you have to stop. Or you bathe with them and die for them. Or any number of extravagant things. Maybe write them a journal full of poems and then give it to them in a few years. 

And if they say, "I can't have any nutella around, because I eat it all at once" or "poems make me whirl until I'm dizzy and then I might fall down and hurt my beautiful head," then you have to honor that. But then, in addition, you have to eat nutella in remembrance of them and you might put on a lot of weight. It's the same with their favorite donuts. Maybe it's best if you love someone who likes hummus and celery. 

I have a friend who said, "Nutella comes and goes." I think that may be the most profound thing I've ever heard. I'm not sure what it means yet, but I intend to find out. I think it probably has something to do with Lord Grahamcracker or whatever his name is on Downton Abbey. 


*Plato did not really say this as far as I know, BUT I'm sure he thought it many times. Also, when he thought it, he thought you weren't very smart for being carried away by love.  

The Twelfth Dance of Christmas: A Carol for Star-Struck Pilgrims

The Twelfth Dance of Christmas: 

A Carol for Star-Struck Pilgrims (in the spirit of Fairport Convention, composed for hurdy-gurdy, gut strings, hand clap, whistle, and the late Sandy Denny)*

The first step out your doorway
is the longest one you'll take,
they say the goal will find you
if the pilgrimage you make,
some come to hear an angel song
and some just wonder why
the star's up in the sky,
the star's up in the sky. 

You travel to a different world
where beats a different drum,
your power means but little now
for this is kingdom come,
so learn the lesson of the road
and the frozen tears you cried,
with the star still in your eyes, 
the star still in your eyes.

You saw the signs or thought you did
and studied what you know,
but glory in the sky my friends
won't lead you any more,
you'll find out why you've come this way
when the poorest infant's cry
finds mercy in your eyes, 
finds mercy in your eyes. 

So treat your camel like a friend
and put no trust in gold,
I know you think it's precious
for so you have been told,
but the child wants something else from you,
and you will soon know why
you've come this far to die,
yes all this way to die. 

On the Twelfth Night of this Christmastide
the wise men they draw near
to the mother and the darling child
bearing frankincense and fear;
with wonder and with doubts no doubt
they make their sacrifice
and heaven in their eyes,
with heaven in their eyes,
in their eyes. 

Now masters help us keep the feast
with cake and ale and wine,
and mistress lead us in a dance
to keep the kings in time,
there's been enough of darkness,
we will make it through this night
with the star still in our eyes,
the star still in our eyes. 

ooh-ooh (hand clap)
ooh-ooh (sans hand clap)

God bless the three who traveled far,
God bless their beasts also,
and all those good folk on the path
who charity to them showed,
God bless the singer and the song
who keep the season bright
and the star still in our eyes,
the star still in our eyes. 

They journeyed for a miracle,
they journeyed for a sign,
they journeyed for to see a king
for such was their design
but miracles mislead the wise
and signs will fade and die
right before our eyes, 
right before our eyes. 

Now masters help us keep the feast
with cake and ale and wine,
and mistress lead us in a dance
to keep the kings in time,
there's been enough of darkness,
we will make it through this night
with the star still in our eyes,
the star still in our eyes.

Some keep their eyes on heaven above
for that is what they need,
but the message heaven sent that day
was something else indeed,
friends look around you when you pray,
the answers you will find
right before your eyes,
oh, right before your eyes.
 
We journey into mystery
like the kings so long ago,
and when we reach our journey's end
we'll know what we must know,
but ending is beginning
and you'll know the truly wise
by the star still in their eyes,
the star still in our eyes.
Yes, ending is beginning
and you'll know the truly wise--
the star still in their eyes,
the star still in our eyes. 

* Here is the original recording of this piece, rough as it is. I tried to record a new version, one that sounds less pretentious. But I couldn't get the phone recording to link up here. Just imagine I'm less pretentious than this sounds. And enjoy the carol as a tribute to those with the star in their eyes AND to great British folk-rock.  Happy Twelfth Night and Epiphany.  Listen to it here:  Star song. 

For those of you who stayed for the final credits:  

Take care of your camels. And your asses. Because it's cold out there. 

The Eleventh Dance of Something or Nothing: Pipe(r) Dreams

 
 

The Eleventh Dance of Something or Nothing: 

Pipe(r) Dreams

 

it's the eleventh day of something or maybe nothing 

can't say for certain
but it's awfully cold and dark, too cold
that's clear

what signs there were--tinsel and friendly church signs and so forth are all gone now
so maybe it really was nothing at all
after all

pipers? what pipers? Gaily? 

whatever, it's awfully cold and dark, too cold
and it's not like I got presents or presence
or anything

it's not like the world lit up with wonder and a new day of peace and brotherhood
fell from the empty sky or everything is fine now in Gaza
or anywhere else

it's not like you didn't see what you couldn't help but see and not understand

through that doorway nine years old obviously doomed 
to keep remembering

it's not like you didn't get that phone call a thousand miles from home at 3 A.M. or
you didn't lie through your teeth that one time, 

sorry, all those times,
sorry, all the time

it's not like the fact that the dog forgives you or at least looks at you with forgiving eyes
means that you are forgiven or that forgiveness is a category
in this particular universe

you were a child and you couldn't help it, so you stood there and you saw what you saw

(but thank the mysterious power you sometimes believe in
you couldn't comprehend)

you didn't have the data, the backup info necessary, 

what Blake would call the experience
to process such an unnameable thing with
your stupid innocent eyes

it's not like the bore at the table behind isn't droning on and on about his engineering school grades
here in the Thai place where the massaman is super hot
the way she liked it

when the two of you would argue about which was hotter and who was hottest
and she'd say how pretty Roong was 

then she'd drink your beer

and you looked because, well what else could you do? you were nine and the door was open
and you said "dad" but it wasn't him,
he was away,

piping gaily somewhere no doubt while strange things, epiphanies not glorious, but,
sad to say, not that unusual, went on
across the threshold

   

and, in the hallway, in your unprepared childlike way, you learned or tried to learn how to detach and
discover how to go on with the rest of life or

something like life 

it's the eleventh day of something or nothing but really who cares? 
even the churches are tired of noel
and it's not like you got any presents or presence
or anything from anyone

it's not like there's any good reason to keep up the exhausted charade this year, this eon, this ever
it's not like there's any pipers piping
or any epiphanies

you see things, that's what happens when you have eyes when you are in this world when you are nine
or when you are ninety or whenever,
you see things

you bring gifts but what does it matter? 

you move around to keep from feeling that it's all dead and empty,
you're not a king or a wise man and
there's no magic

you wonder where Roong is, she's your favorite waitress, she's pretty in her thai dress, and she knows you
but the new girl tells you that
she isn't here

because she's home with her new babies, twins born last week, C-section but they are all doing fine,

Roong is fine and she's home with twins

And Pete is fine too

well obviously Pete is fine 

he's behind the counter and the place is busy and he looks like a new dad

and then he comes over and he remembers your name

and wants to talk about his babies

and you tell him you broke up but you want to know everything about the twins and he wants to tell you

he was hoping they'd be born on 12/12/12 but 

he's happy anyway

a boy and a girl, that's the way to have twins, and the boy is named december

and the girl, of course, they named her 

beautiful

and it's so exciting for them and hallelujah for you too, Pete and Roong have babies, twins

december and beautiful and for now, Pete says

no more hiking or camping 

  

and you hurry and pay your bill and sort of skip out into the freezing night and start the car

and drive across the mall to the children's store

to buy those babies gifts

and you remember the note this afternoon from your sister in Austin because your oldest boy is visiting

"he is a good man, your son,

you did good sugar!!"

and of course, you think of your daughter, a year out of college, who is quitting her really good job

to work in an afterschool program in chicago

for next to nothing

and young nathan, the toast of brooklyn, who worked in south sudan far away from everything he knew

to try to do a little bit of good

the starfish thing

so you run back with the gift card and again you say congratulations Pete, tell Roong I said hi 

and use this for some clothes or something

for december and beautiful

jump back into the frozen world to pick up your youngest from her pizza joint job and what do you know

they still have lovely lit up Christmas wreaths hanging

outside the door

I look through the doorway, standing out in the cold cold, too cold, sidewalk

and see my beautiful daughter, grown up and

ready to go

me too, I'm ready to go home, drive through the frozen night and take the dog out for a little walk

and then look into her eyes and

see what's there

we see, that's what we do and we also pipe and sing and dance and drum and swim and leap and love

and remember to look at things

that make us cry

remember that the light in the darkness means that there really is darkness (it's not an illusion)

the world is cold, too too cold

so give out gloves

you will cry and your tears will freeze that's just what happens in this kind of a place

especially if your eyes are open

and you see

also, people are generous, beautiful in their thai dresses, remember Christmas, grow up to be good,

have children in the bleak midwinter, 

beautiful, december.

it's the eleventh day of something and maybe I'm on the threshold or maybe we all are but

nothing is obvious--forgiveness, miracle, doom, 

power, love, the past.