Morning has broken like the first morning,
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird.
Praise for the singing! Praise for the morning!
Praise for them, springing fresh from the Word!
As with so many Christmases of my memory, this one dawns cloudy and gray, a raw weight to the air. The wealth of last summer’s heat spent from the soil as the shrinking days burned their patrimony, the sun now begins his slow return with the promise to refill the coffers of gold. But first we must endure the long cold, warming our faces on the slivers of sunlight and dwelling in the awe of nights that shimmer with stars.
We’ve been given a gift: If we can choose to face the challenge ahead, we are guaranteed of the return, for the greater part of the reward is in that choosing.
And so it is with Christmas, the Eve a time of lights in the dark, the Day a time of beaming children and magic.
For Christmas truly is an alchemical field, in which yesterday’s needed socks and requested chess sets are purified by festive paper shrouds into mystery bounty and delightful revelation. Like the first morning, like the first bird, duffel bags and alarm clocks that would be a chore to remember on a Tuesday in February burst forth in a glory of abundant profusion on a Monday in December.
Something Divine is at work in this Creation. Some door opens at the edge of the universe when the last page turns on the calendar of Advent.
Daily, we are drenched by the constant drip of the worst machinations of rationalist efforts to strong-arm creative and flourishing free people into manageable and subservient chattel. How easy it is to succumb to despair! But we have an alternative.
When we choose to surrender to the magic of trust in a redemption beyond the engineering of our minds, we pass freely through the portal from northern winter gloom into a fairy tale land of transmogrified socks.
Something is being asked of you. It is both difficult, and simple. Spring is coming, but not without Winter. And without Winter, what would Spring be? But the Spring that is coming for you will depend on how you face the Winter. If you would find yourself in a place beyond the wildest of your dreams, you must trust the part of yourself that can lead you there, and discipline the part of yourself that would keep you trapped in the delusion of safety bounded by what you can rationalize.
When you feel pulled between the inner voice that says, “it’s just socks,” and the one that says, “now that my feet are warm, I have nothing to hold me back from walking towards what calls me,” remind yourself that Christmas can dawn cold and gray, and still be full of wonder.
I’ve got some really nice socks.
.
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[1] Eleanor Farjean, 1931
"When we choose to surrender to the magic of trust in a redemption beyond the engineering of our minds, we pass freely through the portal from northern winter gloom into a fairy tale land of transmogrified socks." :D