Ironic Advent Meditation 2018 #3: Bite the Postman

Ironic Advent Meditation #3

Bite the Postman

I have a friend who once wrote a poem about a having a sudden urge to bite a postman. So I wrote a song about it. That's what I do. I'm an idea thief. I wrote a song called "Beautiful Eyes" because, you guessed it, somebody had beautiful eyes. I mean, the bite the postman song is a good song and everything, but I feel a little guilty about it. OK, not very guilty. Not guilty enough not to sing it. Not guilt enough not to write this meditation.

Why would anyone write a poem or a song about biting a postman? I'm so glad you asked, dear interested reader. If I understand the original inspiration, the idea was to write something a little weirder than usual (can we agree that it was, indeed, that?) in order to get past a kind of writer's block. But then the thing opened up into something pretty interesting and meaningful. As in, we just don't get nearly enough connection in this numb world of ours, so some times we just want to take it to the next level. The teeth level, for example. I assume most of us don't want to be the teethed, but we might, at least in some weird moment, like to be the teether. [Editor's note: I think I should turn off the comments for this meditation]

Anyway, or anyway(s) as Jennifer Lynne Ricke and the same friend who wrote the original bite the postman poem like to say, this reminds me of Advent. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, I can hear all the Jennifers, especially the one with several  names ending in Tait, laughing in iambs at my oh-so-quick transition from biting U. S. government employees to the liturgical season for which I am bound (like Prometheus on a high mountain) to write ironic meditations. I say unto thee, Mock not that ye be not mocked, Oh ye Jennifers of the world. 

But seriously, or seriously ironically I guess, do you get me, my sharp-toothed readers? The entire first verse goes like this: "Bite the postman on your porchstep/good and deep dear, he won't mind it/if he's like me he'll say that he's a lucky stiff/cuz' I can't get close enough to you." I mean it's a song and I'm not Bob Dylan, so there is no chance for a Nobel Prize or anything I know. But in the song there are some interesting variations and intonations to hold the listener's interest (just like a teeth holds . . . skin, you might say), but essentially, that's the point of the song. There's an eternal connection equation that always longs for + x. Whether a postman on the porch or someone we love in a Waffle House parking lot, sometimes we just get this overwhelming yearning for more and deeper human connection. 

And if you're thinking that I'm thinking what you're thinking about what I'm thinking, you're thinking wrong. That's way too easy. And way too cliche. And way too . . . not what I'm thinking (or feeling). Because that (what you are thinking) is exactly one of the many things that is NOT enough. On the other hand, some folks might say that that (what you are thinking) is all there is. OK, I hear you. I just can't accept it (and please don't show me any charts or graphs or evolutionary psychology textbooks to the contrary).

Advent is, obviously, about radical (weird) connection. It preaches or anticipates or maybe just dreams about the most amazing connection of all. Which, of course, is a kind of fantasy. But not that kind of fantasy. YOU (ooh, all caps, wonder what that means?) want to be . . . with me? Connected to me? Well, just in case you wondered, I want to be connected to You. More than I can say. 

Advent says get ready kids because the big love, bigger than postman's postbag at Christmas, bigger than the All American breakfast at Waffle House, bigger than you can imagine, wants to set up a house and be with you, with us. Can you believe it? 

And, of course, I answer -- not really. At least, not usually. And I'm sure lots of you feel the same way. I can try my best, but I'm pretty sure I cannot get me or you guys over that particular hurdle of belief (if it is one). I'm just saying that I can at least remember the longing. I crave human connection, more and deeper, but even more than that, I desire or remember desiring or am nostalgic for  the desire or the memory of desiring that this story be true. That "love came down at Christmas time" as Christina Rossetti put it in her lovely nineteenth-century poem/carol. 

Sometimes I'm close to believing it. The refugee family, the nasty ruler, the cold dark world -- hard to believe any of that could ever happen, right? The mother, the baby. The mysterious sign of power and love together, desiring connection with me. And you. Whoa, Advent, I feel like saying. Where you been all my life? Or at least for the last eleven months?

I'm not saying anything new. And, in truth, I'm mostly numb these days. But I think I could get my teeth into that. And maybe I will. It's a little early for presents, but Here is a lovely rendition of Christina Rossetti's "Love Came Down at Christmas"

For "Bite the Postman" you will have to wait until I record the family-friendly version. You might have to wait. Maybe a long time.

Peace and love anyway(s).