A book for Christmas

I’m not sure if I ever learned where and how the Better Half discovered Charlie Mackesy’s wonderful book, The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse, I’m just delighted that she did. I’ve already read it to the Granddaughter a couple of times. I mention it here, today, because the entire message of the book fits so well with the spirit of the season and because some may be pondering what Santa’s book elves could leave under the tree or in a stocking. In fact, as an early present to myself, I’m going to reread the book over the weekend. My spirits of the season have been slow to bloom this year and I suspect the book may be just what those spirits need. In fact, I’m pretty sure the holiday seasons would be much improved if everyone spent time reading the book instead of whatever “productive” activities seem most profitable.

In a different way, I just summarized one of the problems I’m having with my letter to Santa this year. I could easily, and joyfully, spend time this winter rereading a number of the books I already have on the shelves, plus there’s that tsundoku condition I suffer from. It’s similar to the collection of flies (dry and nymphs) I have that haven’t yet been touched by water. I have come across a “new and improved” kind of flour at King Arthur that can go in my letter to the big guy. I think I’ve already mentioned that I’m asking for world peace and, on further consideration, I’m adding an enhanced dose of sanity for everyone.

a wonderful and true ornament

Photo by J. Harrington

As I’ve been typing this, it has occurred to me that the collection of Christmas music and books are still tucked away at the back of one of the closets. That probably helps explain why my holiday spirits aren’t yet flourishing. We’ll tend to their uncovering this weekend. After a year’s absence, it’ll be almost like unwrapping new presents.

Be Kind

Michael Blumenthal
1949 – 

Not merely because Henry James said
there were but four rules of life—
be kind be kind be kind be kind—but
because it's good for the soul, and, 
what's more, for others, it may be
that kindness is our best audition
for a worthier world, and, despite
the vagueness  and uncertainty of
its recompense, a bird may yet  wander
into a bush before our very houses, 
gratitude may not manifest itself in deeds
entirely equal to our own, still there's
weather arriving from every direction,
the feasts of famine and feasts of plenty
may yet prove to be one,  so why not
allow the little sacrificial squinches and 
squigulas to prevail? Why not inundate
the particular world with minute particulars?
Dust's certainly all our fate, so why not 
make it the happiest possible dust, 
a detritus of blessedness? Surely
the hedgehog, furling and unfurling
into its spiked little ball, knows something
that, with gentle touch and unthreatening
tone, can inure to our benefit, surely the wicked 
witches of our childhood have died and, 
from where they are buried, a great kindness 
has eclipsed their misdeeds. Yes, of course, 
in the end so much comes down to privilege 
and its various penumbras, but too much 
of our unruly animus has already been 
wasted on reprisals, too much of the
unblessed air is filled with smoke from 
undignified fires. Oh friends, take
whatever kindness you can find
and be profligate in its expenditure: 
It will not drain your limited resources, 
I assure you, it will not leave you vulnerable 
and unfurled, with only your sweet little claws 
to defend yourselves, and your wet little noses, 
and your eyes to the ground, and your little feet.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.