The Twelfth Noel: Early Epiphany

THE TWELFTH NOEL: EARLY EPIPHANY

At church today we pretended it was Epiphany. 

It's not. Tomorrow is Epiphany. As far as I'm concerned, you can't make January 5 be January 6 even by a papal decree, or however else these Sundays started taking the place of real holy days. So far, they haven't moved Christmas to the Sunday nearest the 25th, but I assume that will be next.

Regardless, I don't mind having a group celebration of Epiphany on Sunday, since we all happen to be together anyway. By "all" I mean the few who came out in the snow and cold. Still, we were way holier than most of the protestant churches which cancelled their services. I don't know if that's because the people who want to come worship can't get there or because all the people to put on the production, I mean lead the worship, can't get there. 

Our church is a little different. We got a book. If the choir can't make it, if the organist can't make it, even if, like today, the pastor can't make it, we still got church. And, since we were celebrating Epiphany, we even had a bottle of white wine at coffee hour. I don't know who started it, but I love that tradition. And a king's cake. If you get a bean, you're the King. And we had a reading of "Journey of the Magi." 

But, even then, if the people who were supposed to be reading "Journey of the Magi" couldn't have made it, the next available literate person could have stepped up. We didn't need a PA system or a video booth or anything. Like I said, we have a book. Of course, if I weren't there, you wouldn't get my expert negative opinion on T. S. Eliot, but some people I know would rather not have that anyway. 

Of course, if Edwin hadn't made it, he wouldn't have been able to preach his sermon. Even though I walked to church, I missed the sermon because I was showing his baby daughter Elizabeth how to hide a ginger biscuit in her sock. Don't judge me. If you would have heard how loud she was screaming when I came upon that plan to distract, you would want to give me a medal. Or at least the bean from the cake. There's nothing in the book of common prayer about distracting crying babies with ginger biscuits, so sometimes we do sort of improvise.

Anyway, it's Twelfth Night. A snowy, cold, windy, ending to the Christmas season. And to my long writing journey, from twenty-four Ironic Advent Meditations to the Twelve Noels. A cold coming I had of it. 

I feel like saying thank you to some people, but I'm not sure that's called for specifically. I mean it's always good to say thank you, but this wasn't a production number, after all. It was a labor, for sure. But a labor of love. Love for my brother, Noel. But also love for the crazy message(s) of Advent and Christmas, which boggles my brain, burns my heart, calls forth my ironic qualifications, and keeps me coming back for more. 

So, instead of thanks, as such, I'll just leave one final tribute to my brother, Noel. And a couple of special memories. 

When he was in the hospital in October for the original hip replacement, I showed up the week after the surgery. Missy had been there during. Noel hated the hospital food. I kept telling him to eat it and that he obviously hadn't spent enough time in schools or prisons where the food was similarly institutional. But, really, to tell the truth, sometimes it was just too awful for words. So one night my son Nathan and I go to a Texas Bar-b-que place just a couple of blocks from the hospital (yes, in New York City). 

Well it wasn't the greatest, and it caused problems for me, being a vegetarian, but we came back with what seemed like about twenty pounds of stuff and chowed down for a long time in that hospital room. And I think Noel's beloved Dallas Cowboys were even on television that night. I got nothing more to say about that story than that it happened. It was messy and fun and fine. Everybody reaching around Noel's hospital bed tray for more sauce or more slaw or more beans or more Texas Toast. 

Another story. Once upon a time, we were hippies. We did things that hippies did. I then went away to college and became a Jesus freak. The first time I came home for Christmas, that Jesus freak thing was just kicking in and I guess I hadn't totally figured it out yet (unlike now, in which I am one with my bliss and dancing with angels pretty much non-stop). So, I sort of told Noel and Gordon about it, but also started back into doing hippie things, whatever they were. Then I went back to college. 

So, about two or three weeks later, I get this letter from Noel. He couldn't have been more than 15. I wish I still had it. Maybe I do somewhere. Anyway, Noel writes and says something like Hey Joe thanks for telling us about Jesus and all while you were here, sorry we didn't really understand. But, a cool thing happened, a friend invited us to this Jesus freak house, called Shiloh, and it was awesome and Gordon and I are now Jesus freaks and not doing those hippie things anymore and, brother this is what I'm really writing about, YOU HAD BETTER GET RIGHT WITH GOD OR YOU ARE GONNA' BURN!!

Call me Lauren Winner, but I may have exaggerated Noel's letter just a tiny bit either for effect or to make up for my faulty memory. But that's just about what he wrote. 

And he really went whole hog into that Jesus freak thing. Oh my, he studied the scriptures, he witnessed to the hippie sinners on the streets of Denver, he was probably more faithful to Bible studies than mom was to her A. A. meetings (and she just about never missed). I remember him as being very shiny in those days. You've seen some of the pictures. He had hair down to the middle of his back. He had something making sense of his life. He gave himself to it with joy and incredible energy. 

It's a cold, snowy night, the end of Christmas. Have I mentioned that? So let me add a postscript to that last story. The NEXT Christmas, we were all on the same page, so to speak, in terms of Jesus freak-i-ness. But being Jesus freaks, we weren't part of a church that did things like midnight mass on Christmas Eve. On the other hand, having grown up Catholic, that meant something to us. 

So the three of us and some other Jesus freak friends walked through the snow to Blessed Sacrament Church to go to midnight mass (I remember Becky Dimmock came with; she had such a shock of red frizzy hair and big freckles. Also a guy named Larry who had a big shock of blonde frizzy hair. Only the Ricke's had straight hair, I guess). 

I remember that it was a lovely clear night, snow on the ground, and 12 degrees. Funny the things you remember. I say we walked, but really, we grabbed onto the back of the bumpers of cars and sort of bumper skied down the icy streets. 

The church was packed and they weren't used to having too many Jesus freaks. I think they were happy to see us though. We got there a little early, and a choir up in the loft behind was singing selections from Handel's Messiah. We may never have heard that before. I'm not sure. 

But as they sang, we would pull out our Bibles. Carrying your Bible was as important to Jesus freaks as carrying a pipe had been to hippies. "Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people." Noel would say that was in Isaiah something. And everybody would turn to the passage and read it while they were singing. "Every valley shall be exa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-alted." Somebody would look that one up. And so on until the Hallelujah Chorus and the Book of Revelation. 

Everyone was so young and shiny and sparkly and full of hope and so happy about Jesus being born and all. I'll never forget that night. We had been to a lot of midnight masses growing up, but ever since things had gone bad with mom and dad, the family didn't even really go to church anymore. But there we were. And nobody made us go. We wanted to be there. It was like we were seeing and hearing that story for the first time. Wide eyed and open.

I can hear the wind outside right now. It's supposed to get up to 30 or 40 miles per hour. The temp is supposed to drop to 12 below. I won't be bumper skiing tonight or any time soon.

That midnight mass in Denver was incredible, euphoric, and lovely words that haven't been invented yet. I couldn't take my eyes off Becky's frizzy red hair. [how did THAT get in here?] I wish everyone could have an experience like that, and I guess maybe lots of people do. 

I also remember being in church with Noel for his wedding. And his funeral. Father Charly said some great things about my brother that day. He had done a lot of service to the church, including teaching catechism and helping others teach. Kind of like what he did when he was fifteen back in Denver. 

There weren't a bunch of frizzy-haired Jesus freaks looking things up in their Bibles at the funeral, but my two sons, Matthew and Nathan, did the scripture readings. Then we all cried, and held hands during the Lord's Prayer, and said goodbye to Noel. 

I will say one thank you, I guess. Thank you Noel. For writing me that letter. For going whole hog for things you loved, including the Cowboys and Bar-b-que. And your family. Thank you for shining for us. For me. I hope and pray you have had your Epiphany. I can still hear that Blessed Sacrament choir singing: And the glory, the glory of the Lord, shall be-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-reveal-ed. (Open link to listen). 


the portrait is of Noel and his daughter, Krista. 

The Eleventh Noel: The Head and the Heart

THE ELEVENTH NOEL: THE HEAD AND THE HEART

There's no such thing as love
There's no such thing as God
There's no such thing as you
There's no such thing as us
And tell me friends
When I'm down
Would you pick me up
.............................................................
Lord help me right all of the wrongs that I have done
I never meant to do
Lord help me right all of the wrongs that I have done
You know I've done a few


Jenny and I were talking about The Head and the Heart tonight. That's a band we saw this summer. We went to Niagra Falls the next day and got soaked. And laughed and screamed and drove home.

Anyway, we were listening to this song on their album. And I asked, intellectually poking around, "What? They don't believe in God?" 


She shrugged and said, "I don't know."  Then she thought I was going to go crazy about that or something, so she said, "Well wait a minute, it's a song, and you sometimes write songs where you say things that aren't exactly . . . ." And so on. 

I said, "yeah, that's why I'm asking." And I could have said, as we had talked about before, it's like an unreliable narrator. Songwriters and writers in general create characters whose lives, thoughts, words, may or may not be equal to their own in order to make a point. 

What I did say was, "I think it means they do believe in God, unless they also don't believe in us or in love or in you, whoever that is." We then spent the rest of the drive home from the Colt game listening more carefully to the lyrics, so we didn't continue the conversation. But I might have pointed out the later part of the song in which the narrator asks the "Lord" (whatever or whoever is meant by that) to help him right the wrongs he's done. 

Mostly we both liked the song, but I wanted her to see at least one of the reasons I liked it. 

I wonder if there is also a suggestion in the lyrics of something like this. "There's no such thing" as God, love, you, or us in the abstract. But only in relation and relationship. Or, more sensibly put (because, deep down, I think it's crazy to think things don't actually exist except in relation to me), it doesn't really matter, practically speaking,  to me, to us, whether these things exist or not, even if they do. What matters, finally, is whether you will pick me up when I'm down. Or, more fully, whether God or love or you will pick me up. And whether I will pick you up.

I could be wrong. Of course, I think I'm right or I wouldn't have said it. But I'm willing to be wrong. Still, the important question is this, my friend: when I'm down, would you pick me up? 

I have a friend who's starting on her fourth step of A.A. That's the "searching and fearless moral inventory" step. That's some heavy stuff. As you no doubt know, I'm very very holy, so holy that I was reading the morning prayer from Book of Common Prayer this morning while running on the machine (that is just SO holy). And I came to the confession. The part about, "I have not done the things I should do and I have done the things I shouldn't do" (my paraphrase). So true. So true. 

Forgive us Lord. But more than that, help us "right all the wrongs we've done," as The Head and the Heart puts it. After all, it's the Eleventh Day of Christmas. Maybe the Twelfth, depending on where you live. It's not too late to make things right. It's not too early either. There is no better time. The pipers are piping, so listen to them if you don't believe me.

Like the bad church signs say, Wise men still . . . admit that they aren't so wise. Strong people admit that they are weak. The best people are those who know how bad they can be. And sometimes it takes a long journey-- twelve steps, or around the world following a star, or eleven days of Christmas, or thirty minutes on "the machine"--to see things clearly and to try to make things better. 

My brother called me last night. NO, not that brother. Noel won't be calling me any time soon, although I do have his last text. "Yeah" was all it said. I had asked him if it were true that the doctors were going  back in to take out his new hip which had become the site of infection. "Yeah," he said. They did. Noel almost died during that operation, and he never really recovered. 

But, I mean my other brother, Gordon. He was having a hard day. Without Noel. Without Sonia, his beloved Giant Schnauzer who died just two weeks after Noel did. And, I think, because I hadn't been able to come down for Christmas as I did last year. As we spoke, he also gave me some advice about some things. Loving advice about love. And stuff like that. Trying, I think, to help me be a better person. I appreciate it. I need all the help that I can get. 

He said he was just having a hard time, and he wanted to hear my voice. Which leads me to this. One thing I regret, one thing I didn't do that I should have (sin of omission), was stay in touch with Noel better these last years. I had plenty of reasons. After all, he was in New Jersey and I was in Indiana. He was busy with his kids and mine were mostly out of the house. He was . . . .  Really, I can't imagine now why I didn't. I certainly can't justify it. Lord, help me right the wrong I've done. On the other hand, it sort of seems like it's too late for that, doesn't it? 

But is it? Ever? Gordon is still here. And Missy. And Noel's wife and kids. And lots of other people. I won't insult you by making a generic list. Just look around you. And inside.

It's the Eleventh Day. The Eleventh Hour, so to speak. That speaks of time. Nearing conclusion. Wrapping things up. But not yet. Not quite yet. 

Finally, these ideas from the song and from the fourth step and from my own life, remind me of Anne Tyler's novel, Saint Maybe. It's about a guy who makes mistakes. Call them sins, if you want (he does eventually). So then, he starts going to The Church of the Second Chance where he learns to do his own fearless moral inventory, so to speak. And he decides to spend the rest of his life discovering how to make things right. And doing so. 

I recommend that book. And I recommend The Head and the Heart. I also recommend staying in touch with your brothers and sisters. And reading The Book of Common Prayer while running on the machine (then you too can be holy, but I will still be holier than thou, having done it first).

Goodnight. Here's a link to a live in Philly version of the song, My Friends.

Merry Christmas, again. 

Joe

The Tenth Noel: Into the Cold Again

THE TENTH NOEL: INTO THE COLD AGAIN

 

As you may know unless you live in another hemisphere,

it is dang cold. 

 

No, colder than that. 

 

Cold as (the last circle of) hell (Anne Doe Overstreet).  

 

So Rorie and I are out walking and she's like, really, you're just gonna walk around the block in this deep freeze?

 

And I'm like, what's your problem female dog? It's not like I need the exercise (well, really I do). You're the little fatty!

 

And she's like, that hurts, it's not my fault I'm getting old and you guys don't let me run free and besides you've got shoes on you stupid . . . .

 

So, of course, I'm like, awright Rorie, I hear you. Let's run back to the house. 

 

And all the way  back, she's like, ouchie ouchie ouchie, my tender little frozen paws!

 

Well, anyway, take care of your warm-blooded selves and your warm-blooded companions, friends. Because it's cold out tonight, the tenth night of the feast of the Nativity of Our Lord. 

 

I'm feasting, in a way. On comfort food. This is not like me. I make healthy soups. I eat in moderation. I work out. A lot. I'm something and I know it. 

But as the mercury hit a billion below today (whatever, it feels like infinity below), something kicked in from my old life.

 

So, I just ate a pizza. I think now I'm going to make some mac and cheese. No ice cream in the house, though, so it looks like I will have to make brownies. I feel not at all like restraining myself from eating things that make me feel warmer right now. It's cold. Did I mention that? 

 

So be it.

 

The day Noel died, November 23, was really cold, or at least it seemed like it. Of course, Missy and Gordon live in Texas so anything under 60 feels cold to them. But the air was brisk, even frigid that day, although the world was beautiful outside Noel's window early that morning. He faded through the night and quit breathing as the sun was just starting to shine off the Hudson and the buildings across the way on the New Jersey side (his side).

 

I don't think it ever occurred to us to sleep that day. We didn't sleep the night before and hadn't slept much in a week. We had pretty much been living at the hospital, although we did have a room in a local hotel where we sort of took turns getting some sleep. But then we would fight about whose turn it was. Not to go sleep but to stay at the hospital. We had to insist that each other go get some sleep occasionally.
 

Anyway, it never occurred to us to sleep that day. He died about 7 A.M. The last thing we wanted to do after being in the hospital and the hotel for a week was to be in either for the rest of the day. Besides, they were kicking us out of the hospital.
 

So, I came up with a plan. Knowing the city pretty well, and it being a lovely, sunny, but cold day, we would traipse around the Big Apple. We would talk, and eat when we felt like it, and look at things, and honor Noel by being together.

 

That's what we did. To tell the truth, I don't remember eating much except that Gordon HAD to have a NYC hot dog from a hot dog vendor. So we did that at Columbus Circle, at the edge of Central Park, where we started our pilgrimage. Actually, the first guy didn't have kraut, so I told Gordon, don't worry, we'll find a guy with kraut. And we did. And it was fifty cents cheaper too. Apparently, it was a great hot dog. I'm a vegetarian so I can't say for sure.  

 

We walked through the park, then over to  Central Park South, over to 5th Avenue. Then, obviously, we went into F.A.O. Schwartz, the famous toy store and a place I used to like. It being November 23, you can imagine how crowded it was. Gordon and Missy were like, whoa, that's a spicy meatball. I'm like, you aren't in Texas any more kids, so just go with the flow. 

 

I talked with a lady who was selling Hanukkah calendars and it turns out she was a comic dramatist when she wasn't needing to make money, so we talked about Becket and Ionesco and Chekhov and Shanley. And she had lost a brother in the not too recent past. Missy and Gordon were off looking at the dancing piano thing made famous in BIG. I was getting a hug near the Legos.

 

We had some coffee and some snacks at a hard-to-find table in Trump Tower. Then on to St. Thomas Church (near MOMA), Rockefeller Center, the tree (not lit yet), St. Patrick's, the theater where Ian McKellan and Patrick Stewart were doing Waiting for Godot (just to be there), St. Bartholomew's over on Park, and, eventually, Grand Central Station. 

 

And points between. Along the way we talked, cried, bought wool caps, bought gloves, lit candles, prayed, argued about something (can't remember what), and posed with Sponge Bob in Times Square. Well, Gordon did. And, yeah, there was also this cowboy guy wearing only white briefs, hugging people and letting them take their picture with him. I think I saw that.

We marveled at the restoration job on Grand Central. And sat and had a beer and some fries, except for Missy who had a coke or something. We warmed up before we went out into the cold again. We talked and were quiet and realized how tired we were. We said mean things about the bad doctors. We sad nice things about the sweet ones. The healers and the angels. As I say, we warmed up before we went out into the cold again.

Then we went out into the cold again. We hopped the A train back to the hotel and slept for a long time.


The image is of Gordon in a dress and Noel squatting in the background. 

 

The Ninth Noel: A Time for Dancing

 

THE NINTH NOEL: A TIME FOR DANCING

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, nine ladies dancing. 

I don't see much dancing during the Christmas season these days. In fact, I don't see much dancing at all. What's up with that? Human beings dance. It's basically why we are upright. Not dancing is basically why we are uptight. And the most human folks have a way of moving like they are dancing even when they aren't. 

I know, I know, wag your heads.  We are pretty sober here in the midwest, so we've got to be careful, we've got to watch out. We are afraid of stepping on anyone's toes. Literally. But perfect love casts out fear. And toes heal. But the damage done by not dancing is emotional and physical and spiritual and may not heal so easily, especially since those damaged may not realize that they are. 

Nine ladies dancing. I'm in. Make it a line to "You can call me Al." That's what Missy and Nathan and little Lauren, when she was that little, did at Noel and Joann's wedding party. I didn't dance much in those days. But I cut loose, so to speak, for the occasion. Didn't want to waste completely the money my parents had spent sending me to dance school in the 6th grade so I could learn to be civilized. 

Fact is, Cyclopes (to which I've been compared) don't dance. Just read Homer. They are the original "un-men" who are never social, never transported out of themselves, never aesthetically-minded, never aware of their bodies as sites of pleasures other than the obvious urges. Humans? They dance. It's what they do. What they have always done. It's a gift. The gift of our true love. At Christmas. 

Basketball is like a dance in some ways, but with more obvious goals. Still, some play the game like dancers, with more at stake than counting the score. They are the ones I like best. The style with which they move and turn and fly and complement their partner is a kind of loving gesture to the maker of the body and the joy of movement. 

I have this crazy notion of starting dance groups in retirement homes and nursing "facilities" or whatever we call them now. Get up. Stand up. Move. It's like shuffleboard guys. Without the board. Or the shuffle. But with Little Richard screaming out "Tutti-Frutti."

It gets harder and harder of course as you get older, but our culture doesn't help. I'm not talking about Footloose for seniors, although it's intriguing now that I mention it. We have this big emphasis these days on movement, walking, do something for half an hour every day, etc. But rarely do I hear dancing offered as a solution. Emo music doesn't help matters any. Can I hear you say . . . Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, your boo-tay?

When you've been in a hospital for as long as Noel was, lying on your back, just turning over on your side is heroic, an awkward but lovely dance in context. I helped him do that back in October and even a few times in November, earlier on when he was communicating better. It must be difficult not to move when you want to. Towards the end, when he was anxious, he would try to rip wires off and pull tubes out. I think he was just getting exercise. 

At one point, I started a kind of arm wrestling with his good hand and arm, the left one. We'd provide resistance to each other, and, though his arm seemed scrawny and his muscles atrophied, he still had a heck of push. When we weren't there with him, they would strap that hand down.

I don't think Noel had used up his quota of dance steps by the time he couldn't move any more. That's a shame, as much as all the other things that I resent about his dying. It kills me that he's not going to dance with Joann at their 20th or 25th. Or with Krista at her wedding. I sure as hell plan to, brother. Count on that.

I'm sitting here at the old trestle. About the only movement on this snowy day has been to make lentil soup, take out the dog, and walk upstairs eleven or twelve times to tell Jenny to get up.

Monday I start moving again. And I think I just figured out my one real New Year's resolution. I don't think I've used my quota.

Thanks for the dance classes, mom and dad. Not sure I remember how to jitterbug, but Mrs. Ray didn't tell you parents that, at the end of class, she put on the Beatles and the Supremes and we danced the fly and the swim and locomotion and the jerk and whatever else we called that one basic thing this cute girl named Theresa and I used to do. I can start there and work my way up to the fox trot and stuff. After all, I'm a human being. I ain't no Cyclopes.

And, dear reader, if you're hanging with me when I'm in that hospital bed, just grab my hand and give me some pressure. I'll remember what to do.

Nine ladies dancing. This one makes sense. Turn it up, Mister DJ. Can you play "Dancing Queen"?

 

 

The Eighth Noel: All Things Newish

THE EIGHTH NOEL:

ALL THINGS NEWISH 

In honor of the new year, and all that it signifies, I am writing this post in Times New Roman. I hate Times New Roman, but perhaps, in the future, I will grow to love it. I want to love the new, embrace the new, live in the new, while still being mindful and attentive to the past. Maybe using a very traditional font, ironically titled New, which will, in fact, be new for me, is the way to go. Or maybe I have no idea what I'm talking about. 

That's always a possibility. On the other hand, your confusion could be a result of the fact that I am reading Umberto Eco (note to Jessie Riley). In chapter 71 of his Foucault's Pendulum, in a chapter on alchemy, Knight Templars, and the reform of the Gregorian calendar in the late 16th Century, he inserts these lines: 

____________________________________________________

Minnie Mouse is Mickey's fiancee

Thirty days hath September April June and November 

_________________________________________________________________________

You should probably stop complaining about my writing. Or I will start quoting the really good stuff from Eco.

Not that I know if you are complaining or not. I just assume so, due to some paranoia issues I have.

Anyway, obviously, I have not resolved to write more "clearly" in the new year. Little digression here: in my essay included in the just-published MLA book on Taming of the Shrew, there is a typo. The word cleary  (as in Beverly) is used instead of clearly (what I meant to write). One of these days I will go back and see whether that was my mistake or someone else's. For now, I'm just thinking about how weird it is, given the number of drafts and edits we did. These things happen, even in an MLA book, I guess. Because I happen to have some friends who are editors, I imagine them all right now huffing and puffing a little that would never happen on MY watch.

The problem with clear writing, so called, is that like realism, so called, it just doesn't make sense of the real world. Clear writing is significant and valuable. Especially when assembling something you bought at Ikea. Or reading a flood warning (like much of the civilized world plus Arkansas right now). 

I'm not talking about that. Journalism, too, has its place, although much less of a place than journalists think. I mean, how much light and clarity do you come away with, really, after listening to talking heads clearly (or cleary) state and debate their positions about this, that, or the other. 

The problem with Plato, who wants us all to be suspicious of poets because they lie, is that he lies too. Or at least he sometimes says "the thing that is not" (Swift). As do journalists*, politicians, plumbers, and even my brother Gordon when he gets carried away with a true-ish story (like the one about Noel and the wolves). Anderson Cooper can't possibly have truth in mind as he foments international rebellion in nation after nation, pretty much creating something known as "Arab Spring" on demand for CNN.  Not to mention saying nice things about his co-host while awaiting the ball drop.

*I realize, of course, that there are still noble, dedicated journalists who are getting things as accurate as possible and taking great pains to do so. I thank you. No disrespect to you intended. 

Still, as I was saying. Life is complicated. In Cairo and everywhere. And statements need qualification. They need tension, they need irony. The new is fine and dandy, but its newness is, to some degree, a fiction. New Year's Day is still New Year's Eve somewhere, or maybe already January 2. 

But the new year doesn't mean we have new roads, new toilets, new veins, or new spouses. Or that we are new people. 

Babies, on the other hand, are new people (although even that needs some qualification). 

Converted people aren't new people either. They aren't born again, despite the metaphoric language. And yet, in a way, they are, despite the qualification. 

Maybe there is a divine power who will make things new this year, but why is that necessarily comforting? New may be good or bad (to us). You can't possibly look at history and say it's all been an upward movement. That's one thing I disagree with Martin Luther King about. I think it's best to let the divine power (and, we hope, love) work according to a plan we do not understand. If the divine power is THAT kind of power, we don't really have that much of a choice (whether we will get more or less justice, for example).  Although it's pretty to think we do (Hemingway).

On the other hand, the year, the future can be new, meaning different, even better (as in "new improved chicken nuggets") if we make it so. 

We can do things. After all, I have already put up a Christmas tree in this new year, and I didn't think I'd ever get it done. You may say I'm a week or four late, but I say, this is the eighth day of Christmas. I have four more days to party. Besides, I was able to include cards and presents I got last week on the tree. And fruitcake. 

Other than by putting up trees in a timely manner, how will we make the new year new ? How will we make it better? How will we make it something worth the effort of all that making? Wait, are you really asking me? I have some ideas, but, still, I'm the one reading Umberto Eco. So, my ideas might involve alchemy, high-level math (I mean, pretty much incomprehensible by anyone except Pythagoras), and post-structuralist semiotics. 

But Eco isn't just difficult and esoteric. He's also interested, like Kafka, in the impossible (or seeming impossible) as the territory of thought and fiction. So maybe I can give you some ideas. They are impossible, but only in my present reality. Maybe they are not impossible for you, or for someone unbound by time.

Besides, I think it was Einstein who proved that at least one out of every fifteen impossible things really isn't. OK, I just made that up but didn't Einstein have the greatest hair ever? And, given the slippery nature of language, might it not  be that some impossible things really aren't?

SO, in the spirit of all things complicated, especially life, I offer you--

MY IMPOSSIBLE NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS:

1. Quit smoking.

2. Watch less television. 

3. Be more critical of Hollywood movies. 

4. Do a better job of raising my children.

5. Practice the violin more consistently. 

6. Stop questioning God. 

7. Deny the existence of God.

8. Ask my dad about the war.  

9. Do one final edit on that Taming of the Shrew essay.

10. Talk Noel into staying at New York Presbyterian for his rehab.

11. Write more clearly in the new year. 

12. Understand her. 

13. Be born again again. 

14. Choose to become a Calvinist. 

15. Stop making resolutions.

Happy Newish Year. And Joy to you in this Christmas season! Four more days if you haven't got your tree up yet or are still looking for that perfect gift for your significant otter. 

If you are looking for some other ways (possible ones) to make absolutely sure that the arc of history swerves towards justice,  try one of these in the new year: 

1. Volunteer to teach literacy classes for immigrants
2. Help someone who doesn't have a job get a job

3. Adopt a kid. 

 

I know there a hundred or a thousand other things you could do to make things (if not "all things") new, so make your own list and share it. But, more important, do one thing. 

The Seventh Noel: On the Edge of Mystery

THE SEVENTH NOEL: ON THE EDGE OF THE MYSTERY

It's New Year's Eve somewhere. Tomorrow is the Feast of the Holy Mother of God. It's a holy day of obligation, so don't be missing church unless you're a protestant or an atheist or, like some of my friends, both. If you're an ignostic (that's an ignorant agnostic ) or even an intellignostic (really, you get it right?), just go on and go, learn to say the Salve Regina (Hail Holy Queen) if for no other reason because you will learn to say the phrases "after this our exile" and "to thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve." 

I mean that beats the heck out of what I call the just sayin' school of prayin':

"Lord we just want to just ask you just that you will just help us just be strong so that we can just stand up for you, so we're just thankful that you are just so just good to us and just . . . ."

I know. Somebody put the author out of his misery. 

Anyway, we are on the brink of the new, at the edge of the old, teetering on a thin place and moving in a kind of liminal space (thus, the partying) between the same old song and dance and all new performances, yet unscripted. We spin dizzily as the bottom of the past and the known drops out, finding ourselves falling or leaping into the mysterious future.

Some fall. Some leap. But all must make that journey.

I think of my brother, my Noel, our Noel, and his willingness to leap and risk and wonder to make the life he never could have had without doing so.

One day in the hospital, when Noel wasn't communicating, Gordon told a story of their daredevil younger days in Colorado. Though Noel was the younger brother, he took the lead that day, as he often did in most things other than singing.

He drove his four wheel-drive up to a closed mountain pass and showed Gordon an amazingly beautiful valley of packed snow. They looked down and admired and Noel said, "let's ski down it." 

They had the ride of their lives, nearly half a mile to the bottom, screaming and laughing all the way down. No doubt, praying the Salve Regina as well. They stood in the basin trying to catch their breath and looking at each other. Finally, one of them (Gordon doesn't remember which) said "Oh Shoot!" I'm pretty sure it was shoot. "How are we going to get back up?"

Obviously, they were Texas boys at heart and didn't always think those Colorado things all the way through.

Well, the boys realized that the only way back up was to walk, but that was near impossible in the deep snow and on that steep incline, especially when Noel broke a binding and had to make the climb somehow in one ski and one boot. 

Gordon says they were less than half way up when they first heard . . . the howling of the wolves. No shoot.

I must pause here, dear reader to say something about story telling. The only thing less reliable than a story told by a Ricke is a story told by a Ricke about another Ricke. In this case, we have a story told by a Ricke about another Ricke telling a story about another Ricke. On the other hand, you can trust me. On the other other hand, I'm not so sure about Gordon. But he said wolves, so I'm going with it. 

At that point, they both screamed "oh shoot!" out of respect for the sensitive readers of this Noel. And they both kept yelling "shoot!" and "fiddlesticks!" and "what a silly mess this is!" all the way back up the mountain. 

We were laughing hard in the hospital room since most of us had never heard this story before. And Gordon was really enjoying telling it. If you know him, you know. I'm sorry to say, though, that I don't remember what happened about the wolves. I mean, I know the boys escaped because living through the crisis is a prerequisite for a story-teller. Unless it's fiction, and as I said, this isn't exactly that, having some facts mixed in with it. Let's just say this story is faction or fict.

Anyway, as our protagonists climbed higher and higher, escaping White Fang and companions, they noticed that the four-wheeler which Noel had parked at the edge of the snowy trail was slipping off onto the slope itself. Apparently Noel ran and jumped in it and popped the clutch and drove it out of there and they all drove back to Denver for some hot cocoa beverages. I may have made that last bit up. I know the vehicle was slipping down the slope and they made it home. 

I wanted to tell that story. I asked Gordon to help me with some details, but he hasn't sent them on. Maybe that means he made it all up to begin with. I don't think so, though. I think it probably means he's busy. When I find out the facts, I'll decide if I like them and if I do, I'll work them into this fine story.

Gordon's story in the hospital did, though, capture the spirit of our brother. I see him at eight years old, confidently casting his line in to the surf at Padre Island. Only to find that he had hooked our father's shoulder instead. With one of those three-pronged hooks. Dad was surprisingly kind to him for the rest of his life. 

I see him standing barefoot on the streets of Denver, a fifteen-year-old Jesus freak, talking to and arguing with and captivating the smart and pretty sinners he encountered. 

I see him standing on a roof, roofing; or head under a car hood (or a bathroom sink), fixing; or busy in the kitchen, cooking up a new dish for the family. Little known fact: Noel was the first boy ever to take Home Economics at Denver's East High School. Why? To get from here to there. Or maybe because no other boy had ever done it.

Noel could do stuff, all kinds of stuff. But what I'm really talking about is this. Noel tried to do stuff. He wasn't afraid to try. He wasn't afraid of taking a risk. He figured that he was pretty smart to begin with and that he could probably figure out what to do with most things. Even if sometimes he had to say sorry Dad.

Wolves behind him, a sliding car ahead. 

Texas behind him, New Jersey ahead.

The old life behind him, a new life ahead. 

The single life behind him, marriage and children ahead. 

None of the aheads above carried a guarantee. None was without risk. All were worth it. 

He's moved on now, past the threshold space of the hospital and the liminal time of dying. The edge of mystery, where he was, is where we are. 

He, now, knows or does not know. Lives or does not live. Sings "Salve" to the Queen of Heaven or is silent forever. 

We stand now where he did once. We ski and slip and move and break things and repair things and cast our lines into the future. Risking unexpected catches. Making memorable stories.