Showing posts with label The Christmas Quandary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Christmas Quandary. Show all posts

Monday, December 24, 2012

Christmas, 2012

So, I sit, wondering what I shall say this
  Christmas of 2012.

This season has always been difficult for me.
  The struggle to find and keep
  Spirit alive during this season
  has always daunted me.

It is a season that, for me, highlights
  both pure hope and,
  in stark contrast,
  how lost we have become.

So, I want to share a few of the thoughts
  that have filled my heart and mind over
  the years.

The next poems reflect the struggles,
  tell the story of trying to find
  hope in what sometimes seems to be
  such a shamble of misguided
  and frenzied searching for meaning
  during this most sacred season
  of the year...

Christmas, 2011

Christmas in This Year, 2011
Sitting here at my desk, peering out at the majestic pines,
  I am reminded of a night so many years past
  when sitting at another desk, I peered out into the Montana snow
  and witnessed as a story -- my first –
  materialized on the white page at my fingertips.

Many blank pages have been filled since that tender age of 15.

Some smeared by tears from loss and deep remorse;
  some wrinkled and torn by the anger rippling through my veins;
  many rejoicing in hope – founded, renewed, encouraged;
  some withered and pale as the words lightly touched and almost disappeared,
  reflecting the weary soul imparting them;
  many filled with questions, some answered, some still mysteries;
  many dancing with love and glee and humor.

All reflecting a journey of soul through this incarnation.
  Not so different than any other sharing this path called life.
  Unique in its iteration, yet shared in its connection to the all.

So, where does that leave me this Christmas in the year 2011?

With three grown children, a son ‘to be’,
  a new daughter, not formally, but really,
  and a grandchild, already almost 3 years old!

Less 95% of my material belongings;
  sharing a home with friends;
  living in the space of transition;
  a space between ‘then’ and ‘next’.

The space, next, to which I journey
  is inspired by the lives and faith of
  two blessed beings, my mother and father,
  by a profound gratitude for all that
  I have been blessed with in this life,
  and by an equally profound desire
  to give back to life.

I thought I knew what ‘next’ was,
  but ever reminded that I know far less than I think,
  I step forward in humility and openness
  to what may come,
  praying that there, indeed, is something I can offer
  to bring beauty and love to this world.

I know not where I am headed,
  only that I set foot upon this path
  and that each day, I take another step,
  and another.

So, you see,
  our paths are not so different.

We all are challenged to step forward
  again
  each day
  mostly in faith,
  for ours is not to know the future
  but to act according to the truth
  embedded in our souls this day.

It matters not the particular brand of faith,
  really.

It all, in the end, comes down to
  love lived;
  grace and compassion offered
  to one’s self and others;
  discovery and revelation in
  the mystery and beauty all round us;
  and gratitude for life -- all of it.

This is what flows from spirit through my fingers
  when I consider this Christmas,
  36 years after that first story emerged.

I do love you all.

I wish for you a blessed new year
  as you tread upon your life path.

I pray you will feel the profound awe
  inspired by the earth, all its creatures,
  the universe in which it spins,
  and this mysterious, confounding, wonderful
  gift called life.

I hope that you will be given
  the gifts of compassion, grace and love,
  and that you will find opportunity
  to share those gifts with another.

All my love,

Kristen

Christmas..., 2011

Meaning....of Christmas?

"Are you ready for Christmas?"

"No, I haven’t even started shopping yet."

…………..
The Original

Away in the manager,
  No crib for his bed,
  The little lord Jesus lay down his sweet head
  The stars in the sky looked down where he lay
  The little lord Jesus asleep on the hay.

After My Trip to Zimbabwe

Away in the grasslands,
  No house and no beds.
  The little black children
  lay down their sweet heads
  The stars in the sky looked down where they lay.
  The children of Jesus are hungry this day.

Christmas, 2003

Christmas in Wee Valley
They lived in the valley over yonder,
The Wee Ones, that is.
Theirs was clear –
work, spend, work, spend –
the mantra repeated so often,
in so many ways,
in so many places,
that those wee ones didn’t hear it anymore.
Nor did they know the mantra was constantly chanted
in the background of their lives.
White noise it was;
add it to the chirping of the red, bold diminishing birds,
the engines pushing tons of steal and wee ones to and fro,
the time clock that mastered their time and lives.
What noise?’ you say.  ‘I hear nothing
cept the chirping,
and a car driving by,
and the ding when I punch in at work…’
‘I got a new thingamajig today!  Don’t you just love it?!’
‘Why…What exactly is a thingamagig?’
‘Well, I don’t rightly know, but I do know one thing!’
‘What’s that Wee One?’
‘It was on sale!!!’
‘Oh my!  A sale!!  Why didn’t you tell me earlier?!  I really need one of those thingamajigs!  I wonder if they have them in red or purple, or maybe teal?!’
On their way home from a work-a-day,
cash in hand, thingamajigs on their minds,
‘When I go home, I feel so discombobulated – out of sorts really!
I miss the speed with which we make those bopzats!
And the noise of the bopzatpoota machines – oh how they roar!
We made 39,000 bopzats today!’
‘Wee One, excuse me…’
‘Yes?’
‘What’s a bopzat?’
‘Don’t you know?!  It’s the latest rage!  Everyone’s buying them!’
‘Really?  What for?  Do they sing?’
‘Oh no, they do not sing.’
‘Well, do they ding?’
‘No, they do not ding.’
‘Hmmm, do they roll?’
‘No, they definitely do not roll.’
‘Walk?’
‘No, no walking.’
‘Make dinner, warm you up at night?’
‘No, I’m sorry.  Bopzats don’t make dinner, nor are they food.  And they don’t warm you up at night.  You can get a Luippspin to do that.  They come in 30 colors now!  They come out of the department up the hallway.’
‘But, what then, does a Bopzat do?’
‘I don’t know, really.  But, they are the rage!  We had to increase production 30 fold this week to handle the demand!  You should have seen the Wee Ones lined up, some got there two days before the production line was scheduled to finish!’
On their way home from a work-a-day,
cash in hand, thingamajigs and bopzats on their minds.
Now, Christmas comes three times a year in Wee Valley.
Better that way.
More opportunities for the Wee Ones to prove they weren’t like
that horrible, stingy scrooge fellow.
Oh, they knew him well.
His movie had been reproduced yearly by the big people on the other side of the valley,
by big stuffed animals and a green frog, and now by the wee ones’ very own preschool.
No, they weren’t like him, or that green Grinch fellow either!
That mean fellow didn’t want to give gifts!!!!
He knew not the meaning of Christmas!!!
Poor fellow.
Such a small heart…
They understood fully that the measure of their caring for another
could only be weighed in size and number
of presents!
So, yes, they requested more Christmases.
And, to prove their goodness,
they asked for more hours at the noisy work-a-day plant
making thingamajigs and bopzats
and whatever else the big people on the other side of the valley
dreamed up,
so they could earn more money
to spend on more gifts.
Because we all know that Christmas isn’t Christmas
without spending.
We all know that, right???

Christmas, 1997


November 4, 1997

I just saw two trucks drive by, loaded with pine trees.  Oregon is the largest supplier of Christmas trees in America.  It also does huge business with Japan.  Every year, tens of thousands of trees are sacrificed so that we may dress them in garland and lights for one day, throw millions of dollars of unneeded presents under them and wrap those excess presents with wrapping paper - which will be thrown away during the present opening frenzy.

Each year, this ‘tradition’ sickens me at a deeper and deeper level.  We no longer kill trees, but rather plant a tree at Christmas.  We don’t buy cards to send to people who then throw them away - we recycle paper we already have used.  And this year, we will not use wrapping paper.  We will use newspapers.

My soul wants to cry at this decadence.  My heart can not find the meaning - the spirit - any longer - of Christmas.


Christmas Lust

The slaughter has begun.
  How will they keep the trees alive until Christmas?
Commercialism has won.
  How many will be sacrificed for our lust?
The rampant spending, consumerism, uncontrollable desires
  are sickening my heart.
The buying and destroying, the throwing away - all sires
  a society bereft of spirit, denuded of meaning.
A society which forfeited its soul
  for one more thing,
  one bigger thing,
  one best thing.
Things
  These are our masters - things without soul or breath.
What have we come to?
Where shall we go from here?