Dusk in Savannah

 

The writer operates at a peculiar crossroads where time and place and eternity somehow meet.
- Flannery O'Connor

It is starting to get dark in Savannah. The sky is changing to a milky blue above the old trees in Madison Square. The city feels moody and atmospheric. I wander around Madison Square in my favourite part of the historic downtown taking photos and smiling. The light is fading and changing the shape of shadows. Tree limbs form different canopies overhead as the glow from the lamps and leaves scattered all over bring me into an Autumnal mood. It is a mystifying vibe, seemingly on the edge of something, like an entrance into faerie might be at that lamppost. 

The feeling of this place is full of history at the same time, colliding with the mystical world of faerie. The leaves scatter across the grassy spaces, tall gallant trees border the paths, lanky in branch and limb, full of leaves. Lamps adorning the dark as dusk sweeps in while the sky high above the trees can be seen through the dappled clearings as crystal blue fading to a dusky grey. 

With the light fading I take photos and try to capture the scene and mood. It's hard to capture a feeling of a place in a photo, but looking down a path with leaves strewn and lamps glowing is a good start. It's a nice 57 degrees.

I had to take advantage of a dusk stroll. Thanks to my wait time at the restaurant, I got to take the square stroll taking photos. The squares get a bit spooky after dark, but at dusk it's magically mysterious and marvelous. It doesn't hurt that a favourite bookshop sits at the corner of the square. I dashed into it when I arrived, staying until they closed, picking up an essential book after saying hello to one the cats.

I really enjoy this area. The tree-lined streets and two bookshops within a couple blocks. A couple coffee shops close, too, all nestled within a short walk from one another. The old southern architecture is all around, and the charm greets you along any walk.

At last I am seated at the restaurant, outside along the sidewalk. Normally I am not a big fan of eating outside, but tonight it's perfect. A large oak tree is the canopy over me with strings of chunky twinkle lights intertwined. It's much quieter outside than in the restaurant anyway, and I write in my notebook the whole time. It does get chillier and chillier the longer I sit there, but I don't mind too much. Warm food is coming, fresh fries and a pumpkin curry that is out of this world delicious. I jot more notes and feel the thrill of a little adventure, enjoying every bite and every jot.

That Book on the Table

 

That book on the table - don't leave home without it. Don't let your feet depart your home without a book in your bag. That's my simple motto. Maybe I don't get to read it, but maybe I will. Waiting for someone to arrive to meet you? Read. Grabbing a coffee or meal on your own? Read. 

This January has been glorious for my winter-loving heart. I am sad to see the month come to its end. The cold, crisp days, and dry air that makes you feel alive and like you want to take a good, long walk. The sun is welcomed to warm the air and a jacket is needed. Warm drinks are enjoyed most often. You look for reasons to be outside, no sweating as you step out. The sky is crisp blue.  High cirrus clouds are wisps of ice crystals streaking across the sky. Venus shines brightly in the sky after sunset. Jupiter has been showing up as well. Blankets are needed and add a cosiness to your evening. 

I could go on and on in my (probably unpopular) opinion, but I didn't even mention the perfect environment to read lots of books! I am reading The Way of a Pilgrim, a collection of tales by an unknown pilgrim, discovered in 1884 in Russia. There has been a lot of speculation about who the pilgrim was. The tales are told through the eyes of this wandering Russian Orthodox pilgrim, who is on his way on a lifelong journey. It's warming tales of simple joys, suffering, then comfort, mistreatment encountered in the world, then some relief and glory to God. Meeting kind strangers on the road. Being offered bread for the journey. The ideas throughout the book circle around prayer and consistent prayer - praying at all times. What does that look like? The pilgrim wonders this and wanders asking this of everyone he meets. The pilgrim says the Jesus Prayer all day until he is breathing it like it's as natural in his daily habits as his walking from place to place each day. 

I grew so used to the prayer of the heart that I practised it without ceasing, and finally I felt that the prayer was functioning entirely of its own accord and repeating itself in my mind and heart without any effort on my part, not only when I was awake, but also in my sleep, so that nothing interrupted it for even a second, no matter what I was doing. My soul praised God continuously and my heart overflowed with unceasing joy.

The book is spiritual guidance in a gentle way, showing dependence on God we can scarcely imagine today. The only thing we can truly rely on is God, and His love and grace towards us that we don't deserve. He finds this out in multiple ways as he journeys through various trials. He loses his precious books as they are stolen from him. After a time of mourning, he stumbles across the thieves and gets his books back. He learnt in the meantime not to rely on the books for his devotions. Do we stay faithful when things are rough? Are we keeping our eyes fixed on the Lord? When we don't have answers? When we feel alone?

This book is encouragement for the road we are all on, in different places and levels of understanding. We will never fully understand. But faith leads us to trust in the Lord, whose ways are higher than ours.

The monk continued to persuade me that the very words of the Gospels contained a beneficial power, since they recorded what God Himself had said, "You don't need to understand, you must simply read diligently. According to one saint, you might not understand the Word of God but the demons do and they tremble with fear..."

January Days

 

The cold earth slept below;

         Above the cold sky shone;

                And all around,

                With a chilling sound,

From caves of ice and fields of snow

The breath of night like death did flow

                Beneath the sinking moon.

(Percy Bysshe Shelley)

I wake up to the cold air - undeniably wintry in the 30s. Blankets on my bed keep me cosy all night, but getting out of those warm covers seems a daunting task. But! These are the Winter days so rare around these southern parts. We don't have caves of ice and fields of snow, but we sure do have a cold earth sleeping below the cold sky. In all Shelley's beautiful words there underneath is a dreaded feeling, like death on the breath of night. His life was tragic and in opposition to the beauty that life had to offer, yet somehow he was able to create such beauty through his words that can often trace in their sources back to the source of all, God. He may have rejected God in his own rebellious ideas yet I can't help but appreciate his talent and use of language. He may have seen some wintry night as dreadful and bitter, set out under the moon to visit. That may be how many people feel when it is bitterly cold and icy. When there seems to be no end to the darkened days. 

When the sun has shone these recent days, it hasn't warmed the land. The air still holds onto that icy blast from the north, and I delight in it. The difference of season, the utter relish of inspired cold that sets my mind to all the creative things. Poems pop into my head, words and ideas spring up like blooms shedding bulbs, and I seek to be outside with nature in this change of weather. Colder, much colder than usual. This kind of weather always splits me into two - one part of me wants to be outside on walks letting this cold sink into me as I explore and see the world with fresh eyes (once a summer zone now a winter wonder) letting my mind wander as my feet wander, and the other part of me wants to sit with a cup of coffee/tea donning a thick sweater to write novels and stories, poems, and discourses on the weather or stories related to my inspired state.

Every true artist does feel, consciously or unconsciously, that he is touching transcendental truths; that his images are shadows of things seen through the veil. In other words, the natural mystic does know that there is something there; something behind the clouds or within the trees; but he believes that the pursuit of beauty is the way to find it; that imagination is a sort of incantation that can call it up. 
(The Everlasting Man)

I read G.K. Chesterton's The Everlasting Man every morning with my coffee and warm porridge. I am getting close to finishing it now. A re-read of this was essential and I am enjoying it so much. He tells the story/history of all mankind through the lens of the Christian story, the ultimate Story. He reminds us that we don't know the details of prehistoric man, as they were pre-history. The myths and pagan ideas of early history all unfold, manifested in a worship of nature. The hopelessness of fallen civilizations from Troy to Carthage lead up to the strangest story in the world. Jesus was not just a teacher, for those who claim Christianity is like the other religions. Not the case. None of the other heads of religions like Buddha or Mohammed claimed to be God. Jesus does. He turns everything upside down in our world. He is either a lunatic, or God incarnate. It's the strangest story of all. All the old myths, new myths, fairytales, etc are not pagan, but Christian. As Chesterton writes, the world of Peter Pan doesn't belong to the world of Pan, but the world of Peter.

That is the paradox; everything that is merely approaching to that point is merely receding from it. Socrates, the wisest man, knows that he knows nothing. A lunatic may think he is omniscience, and a fool may talk as if he were omniscient. But Christ is in another sense omniscient if he not only knows, but knows that he knows...
This is where it was a fulfillment of the myths rather than of the philosophies; it is a journey with a goal and an object, like Jason going to find the Golden Fleece, or Hercules the golden apples of the Hesperides. The gold that he was seeking was death. The primary thing he was going to do was to die. 
(The Everlasting Man)

It all leads to purpose fulfilled, the story isn't an aimless wandering around. It is the embrace of ultimate sacrifice. What a joy - we get to be (undeservedly) part of this divine purpose. 

About Trees

 

Visiting the much-loved spot - Sarasota Bayfront Park, to view the water, downtown, and the big, old trees. Many were lost when Hurricane Milton came onshore very close by. The tree population looked sparser than ever. Banyan, Oak, Palm. But to see many of these huge trees still standing was a joy. They weathered the storm, their roots are deep. They creaked and swayed with well over 100 mph winds but stood firmly holding their ground.

My Dad's mighty oak. The oak tree planted not long after my Dad passed away has grown into a mighty tall tree. I visit it anytime I am back in my hometown. Standing just a couple blocks from Venice Beach, it also weathered Hurricane Milton and stands firm. We went to visit dear friends, who had a plaque made at the tree, for anyone to know that this tree was planted in my Dad's honor/memory. It felt so special to be there for its unveiling. 

The oak was the mighty giant, who held the ball moon in goblet fingers. (John Lewis-Stempel)

To say that I have a thing for trees would be fully accurate and not a recent purview. It has been something in me since childhood, always there. If you know me, you know I am always interested in learning about, reading about, encountering, venturing to trees. 

We can place the blame on my Dad, for he was bit of a tree lover, and he knew a lot about trees (being in the lawn maintenance field with his business). His father was in the U.S. Forestry Service, so my Dad spent much of his childhood traveling around the country with his family going to all the forests for his father's work. Moving forward in time, on all our family vacations, we would hike in nature. It was a staple of all our adventures no matter where we went (New England, out West, North Carolina, Georgia, etc). There was one particular giant tree in North Carolina we would hike to on every visit every year. I can't tell you how many times I've hiked to that giant tree, and I loved it every time. Shuffling our feet through fallen leaves, bundled up in puffy coats and gloves. The excitement of arriving at such a tall, giant with massive trunk sitting there in the middle of the forest was always mysterious and magical to me. 

I would think of the lifespan of trees. When I learned how old trees were, some being over 100 - 150 years old, I remember feeling astonished, imagining my limited timeline in history, how the tree was there back in the 1800s. How much has happened in the world in that time? It set my mind to wondering. The tree was there to witness it. That seemed ancient to my young mind. Growing up in the U.S. things just weren't that old. Anything over 100 years old was practically ancient. 

I see your knuckles hard and strong,
But have no fear they'll come to blows;
Your life is long, and mine is short,
But which has known the greater woes?

(W.H. Davies)

Oak trees have been essential to humanity and our explorations and building - the first ships to go to the isle of Britain (the Angles, the Saxons, the Norse) were longboats made of oak. The oak timber built the strongest frames for houses and great buildings in Britain - it actually gets tougher as it ages. It never bows and can stand for a thousand years. It was why churches and great halls used oak.

It wasn't that Dad ever recited poetry about trees, but it was the way he knew about them, recognized them, noticed them, and respected them. He knew them as an asset, valuable for our lives here. As a lover of nature, hiking, camping, being outside, his appreciation of all these things was so evident it was naturally distilled into me growing up. I always had an appreciation for such things as well. I mean, we took family vacations to see my grandma in North Carolina every Oct/Nov so we could see the trees and their leaves shift to yellows, reds, and oranges and experience something so different from Florida's nature. Those memories and my love of leaf-looking deeply influenced my love of trees, seasons, and travel.   

To lie by day in thy green shade,
And in thy hollow rest at night;
And through the open doorways see
The stars turn over leaves of light.
(W.H. Davies)

I love looking up through the branches and leaves of a tree. Contrasting with the sky above it takes you out of your own self for a moment, to see what is much bigger (and maybe much older) than you. I suppose the leaves I usually peruse most often are leaves of books (made of trees). They are intertwined like elements of nature. J.R.R. Tolkien was a bit of a tree lover himself, and he created the Ents, walking/talking trees as creatures in Middle-earth, and they were inspired by oaks. I called Dad "Treebeard" as the leader of the Ents as a joke and it stuck. He probably thought his cooky daughter was just caught up in her crazy imagination again. Maybe a little bit, but it was my way of complimenting his sturdy, solid heart, dependable nature, like that of an oak.

Winter and Bookish Goals

 

Happy 2025! I hope this new year has treated you well and you're feeling a good start to the best month of the year, in my opinion. Here's why:

Winter goals

Winter is here and I could not be more delighted! These are the days I dream about all year. I know, call me crazy. In fact, when I woke up a few days ago and it was 36 degrees Fahrenheit, I promptly sat down at my desk and wrote this poem (after I put on a sweater and made a cup of coffee of course):

Oh! wake the morning frosty cold -
If I may be so bold
I don't have to be told
That the glorious Winter is here
In an air so crisp and clear
With the dawn and sun near
My heart awakens to wonder
It sets my mind to ponder
And encourages my feet to wander.
With nicks of cold at my face
I call it a blessing and grace
To enjoy cold walks in this place.

To say I enjoy the cold weather is a bit of an understatement - saying that probably results in some glares. Certainly it's the unpopular opinion. But hey, we all have things that we like that others don't. And everyone who knows me well, knows that I am smiling without even trying on cold days that are accompanied by a greyscale sky. Ahh, yes, it's the perfect combination to get to work with reading and getting cosy with coffee/tea! Which leads to my next point: 

Bookish goals

I don't set book goals for myself. I want to read at my leisure as much as I want and not feel pressure to hit a certain number. I read a lot, so I am not concerned that I won't read "enough". Plus, I sometimes read very long books that take a lot of time, effort, and pages to get through, yet it still only counts as one. I feel a bit of the Legolas and Gimli competition in The Lord of the Rings, when Legolas and he are in a competitive game of keeping track of their numbers as they kill Orcs during the siege at Minas Tirith, when Legolas takes down a huge elephant with all the deadly men on top, taking them all out,  Gimli sees it and shouts "that still only counts as one!"

I read 82 books in 2024. It's a bit astounding to me because January - March I was studying full time (all my spare time outside of work) for my big exam I took in March, so that took out a lot of reading time.

My longest and shorted books:

Some of my top books from new reads this year (not including any re-reads):

I keep coming back to this beautiful collection of the Psalms, written in lyric poems by the brother-sister Mary and Philip Sidney. Extremely talented poets in their English Renaissance time (1580s). These Psalms were passed around in manuscript before they were officially published in the19th century, and praised by John Donne and George Herbert, arguably two of the best poets. The way they work with language is worthy of study of what good poetry is, such as:
The sacrifices sacrify
Of just desires, on justice stayed
Trust in that Lord that cannot lie.
Indeed full many folks have said,
'From whence shall come to us such aid?'

Simone Weil was an amazing, brave French Christian philosopher who died so young during WWII (she joined the suffering and starved). This is a book of spiritual wisdom, left in notebooks that were published after her death. They are short snippets of insights that one can ponder for years, such as:
"God could create only by hiding himself. Otherwise there would be nothing but himself. Holiness should then be hidden too, even from consciousness in a certain measure. And it should be hidden in the world."

A new book that came out about Tolkien's Catholic faith by Holly Ordway. I loved learning more about how devoted he was, and how he incorporated his faith in his life, especially life in Oxford including conversations and experiences he had with others. His faith is not much talked about, as he didn't write "theology books" even though this study shows so clearly how infused his faith is in all his writings, so I deeply enjoyed this book for more depth and appreciation of Tolkien.

How have I not read this biography before now? Don't ask me. It was sitting on my shelf when I purchased a used hardback from Blackwell's probably 8 years ago. I picked it up and realized I had not read it, and got to it right away With Hooper and Green's personal stories and relationship with Lewis, this was hugely enjoyable and insightful on Lewis's life, especially in Oxford.

A different way of looking at saving and spending (for retirement) - why wait until you are too old to enjoy life or gift to your children? Do it now, while you can, when you can enjoy it and when your children are younger and can use and enjoy it, with the caveat to be sure your retirement is set-up for goals needed first. Really good fodder for having financial conversations. Build up memory dividends that will pay out to you the rest of your life.

Fascinating journey around the world visiting abandoned places, natural and man-made, leftover from wars, disasters, or left behind for other reasons. Forbidden places. Haunted places. Places where humans no longer live. How has nature taken over? What can we learn from these places? Full of interesting encounters with places humans dare to go.

A purposefully offline journal, only available in print. Essays old and new. Thought-provoking and topically curated. I love these beautiful hardback journals - there are four out so far. I have two of them. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this every morning.

Ending and Beginning

 

Rising on the last day of the year, and rising on the first day of the year encourages some reflection. Thankfulness always rises to the top with each year, reflecting on the blessings that I did not deserve, and to me I feel that to those who receive much, much is required. Meaning, I feel the responsibility to use my gifts well, for good. To hopefully do good, create good, and be a blessing to someone, even if only in a small way. As always, during Advent and Christmas I read the poetry anthology from Malcolm Guite Waiting on the Word. Somehow I am enjoying it even more than previous years, and I ask myself why. I realize that I have felt less stressed and anxious this year. I take in moments and appreciate them, noticing the details of a moment. Taking a moment to linger. When I allow myself that space I am filled with peace and calm. Giving myself that clarity of time to ponder. To let words sink in, perhaps as if for the first time.

The poem for the last day of the year was Thomas Hardy's "The Darkling Thrush", and it's a beautiful year end reflection on the gloom of the world suddenly turned by the sing-song of a Thrush choosing to "fling his soul upon the growing gloom". Oh, so beautiful, I love that. I will aim to fling myself upon the growing gloom everyday.

Against the darkness this Thrush sings, when the frost is "spectre-grey" and the land has features that resemble "His crypt the cloudy canopy, the wind his death-lament".  Infinite hopelessness. No germ of bloom to come or light to shine. It's a desolate feeling of dread and gloom at the end of the year (Hardy wrote this poem on December 31, 1900).

But then the song is heard, and the final stanza-

So little cause for carolings
of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware. 

To Hardy, who turned his back on faith, this is even more hopeful. As he catches a glimpse of joy amidst dark gloom you can't help but wonder if he followed that trail of light to see Christ as the source of all joy and truth. The hope reflects that joy - when one can be filled with joy even whilst dwelling in darkness, grief, or gloom. The joy with Christ is not dependent on any of those things of the world. It dwells within us through all things - it is the darkling Thrush that never stops singing the tune of the heavenly realm we often block ourselves from hearing/seeing. It's there, but do we choose to not to attend to it, only seeing the dead year, the dread and threat, and completely ignore the light that sits there singing amidst it all, knowing that what is right there is not all there is. There is more beyond what we can see. Much more is around us - song and presence. Do we not entertain angels unaware? Lingering in the mist, near the cracks of gloom, all is riven to the glory of God, hidden from those who will not see, who choose not to see.

Welcome 2025!

Winter Star

My Christmas morning drive to the family's house was met with beautiful rays of the rising sun breaking through greyscale clouds across the lake. It held a beauty in the stillness and radiant contrast of dark and light. Now, the merry Christmas days fold into the end of year days, still in the midst of winter, still in the mindset of Christmas, which does continue until Epiphany. May Christmas last within us long after the decorations get put away. 

Winter Star

Slow the pace for days ahead
Call to a deep within you
Cherished hours of dear time spent
Coloured in shades brilliant in hue.
Sparkle and light, oh bright night!
Illuminated by planets and stars,
Glimpses of ancient prophesy
Comes down to where we are.
Journey with a star, follow its path,
Rise where it leads, quicken your pace,
Create space for the coming king,
Lowly, unexpected; the plan of grace.

Music on Christmas Morning

 

When I was growing up, Christmas morning was always a magical time - all the anticipation had been building for the good news of great joy, and the night before we celebrated with a candle-lit service at church where the story was shared again, along with singing the old hymns with modern voices. Then with the delivery of gifts under the Christmas tree, comes another delivery into our world. He came down to us, as an infant and gentiles (Magi) travelled from far to worship him and offer gifts. I had always wondered why we give gifts as a child, and this answered that pondering. As Lancelot Andrewes wrote in his Christmas sermon of 1622 that he preached in front of King James:

Christ was made poor to make us rich, and so ‘offering gifts’ comes very fit.  There now remains nothing but to include ourselves, and bear our part with them, and with the angels, and all who this day adored Him.  The Magi were Gentiles. So are we. We are to ‘go, and do likewise.’ We cannot say ‘we have seen His star’; the star is gone long since, not now to be seen. Yet I hope for all that, ‘we come to worship.’ [Let] the same day-star be risen in our hearts that was in theirs. For then it will bring us whither it brought them, to Christ.

The Magi followed a star, and may we do the same, though it be risen in our hearts not in the sky. We also are part of the Christmas story today, all these centuries later. In our small ways, we propel the story forward in our participation. 

As the rush of pre-Christmas settles down to Christmas Eve and Christmas, may there be a quiet rising of the star in your heart, something deeper sinking in as the love of God rises.

And on Christmas morning, we can hear the music and hear the words with deeper meaning, from old days of tidings and joy.

I've been reading through the Brontë sisters' poems lately, a lovely book my friend gave me. Anne's Christmas poem stuck out to me as a new favourite, as one I have been reading several times as we lead up to Christmas. 

I'll let Anne's wondrous words lead us into the these Christmas days. Merry Christmas!

Music On Christmas Morning

Anne Brontë

Music I love—but never strain

Could kindle raptures so divine,

So grief assuage, so conquer pain,

And rouse this pensive heart of mine—

As that we hear on Christmas morn,

Upon the wintry breezes borne.

Though Darkness still her empire keep,

And hours must pass, ere morning break;

From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,

That music KINDLY bids us wake:

It calls us, with an angel's voice,

To wake, and worship, and rejoice;

To greet with joy the glorious morn,

Which angels welcomed long ago,

When our redeeming Lord was born,

To bring the light of Heaven below;

The Powers of Darkness to dispel,

And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.

While listening to that sacred strain,

My raptured spirit soars on high;

I seem to hear those songs again

Resounding through the open sky,

That kindled such divine delight,

In those who watched their flocks by night.

With them I celebrate His birth—

Glory to God, in highest Heaven,

Good-will to men, and peace on earth,

To us a Saviour-king is given;

Our God is come to claim His own,

And Satan's power is overthrown!

A sinless God, for sinful men,

Descends to suffer and to bleed;

Hell MUST renounce its empire then;

The price is paid, the world is freed,

And Satan's self must now confess

That Christ has earned a RIGHT to bless:

Now holy Peace may smile from heaven,

And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring:

The captive's galling bonds are riven,

For our Redeemer is our king;

And He that gave his blood for men

Will lead us home to God again.

Merry Festive Reading

 

Merry festive reading to you!

Do you have any books on your reading list for this time around Christmas? Ones that you want to read - or re-read each year? 

Still on my list I'd like to re-read in the coming week or two include A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, of course, the absolute classic and the book that is credited with infusing into culture the ways we celebrate Christmas, even today. Also, The Nutcracker by E.T.A. Hoffmann. Last year was the first year I read The Nutcracker, and I think it will be one that I want to read each year.

Until those books are re-visited, here are the ones I have already been reading. I embracing the season with the good books that bring me right into the snowy and wintry landscapes, cheer, and mystery.

Jane Austen's Christmas - The Festive Season in Georgian England, edited by Maria Hubert

Traditions from the time of Jane Austen, with excerpts from her novels, her letters to and from family,  recipes, poems, and other letters and diary entries to get a sense of that time period and how they celebrated. Games families played were quite different from what we might consider today - such as apple bobbing. Isn't that a Halloween thing? Recipes are also quite interesting to read (and not try out, I am not so brave).

I loved learning more about the Twelfth Night Festivities, such traditions we do not even talk about today - from the last evening of Christmas to the Feast of Epiphany (when the wise men visited). Would you like to play Snapdragon, which involved popping raisins into your mouth from a bowl of flaming brandy?  You'd have a bowl flaming and reach your hands in to grab a raisin. Yes, this was a children's game. Popular from the sixteenth century. Maybe after you have some bullet pudding. 

Winters in the World, Eleanor Parker

I am re-reading this one, all the Winter sections, as it does travel through the seasons from the Anglo-Saxon world. It's absolutely delightful and fascinating to me. The literature, poetry, beliefs, traditions, and language. Winter is an invading force that comes quickly into their world, taking the world by storm, so to speak. The language finds beauty in all things about the turning year. We see the seasons changing and the importance of how it shapes their world. In a time that depending on the weather for survival, harvests, and livelihood, they paid such close attention to the gifts of each season.

After (All Saint's Day) comes Winter's Day, far and wide,
six nights later, and seizes sun-bright autumn
with its army of ice and snow,
fettered with frost by the Lord's command,
so that the green fields may not longer stay with us,
the ornaments of the earth.

The Wood at Midwinter, Susanna Clarke

Susanna's newest book, a short story beautifully illustrated. A fantasy tale inspired from myths and stories of saints. It is another crossover kind of story, like Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, where the real world and the world of fairy intertwine, and characters cross over. Strange indeed, and though provoking. A young girl gives up everything to raise a baby cub. In doing so, attempts to heal a brokenness between the natural world and man.

As Susanna writes in her afterword "In my own writing I had become fascinated by characters who are bridges between different worlds, between different states of being, characters who feel compelled to try and reconcile the unreconcilable."

The World of Xmas

 

We live in a world of Xmas.

Once upon a time in a parallel world imagined by C.S. Lewis (or simply an observance of our own world), we lived a preparatory period of 50 days leading up to a festival of Xmas. This festival made out to be a fun and happy time, but had requirements like filling the shops to buy gifts and cards for every person you know, or half-know, weary and exhausted, but as part of the sale adverts you must follow the trends and get gifts that are popular and wanted by all. Which means fighting crowds at the shops. It's a whole rushed experience because you are pushed around the long halls of shopping malls in pursuit of the sale.

This means, of course, you're quite emptied in spirit and in wallet, and have loads on credit cards to foster such purchases, and as we approach the main event, you're exhausted and irritated, so you spend half the day of the event in bed and/or your pajamas, trying to recover from overeating, overspending, and overdrinking. But that's all part of the event festivities encouraged.

Yet another event, a holiday is celebrated the same day, called Christmas and it is kind of the opposite of Xmas, in which the folks who celebrate wake early, dress nicely, and attend service joy-filled and focused on worship of one they call Creator. A story is told of a baby born and the young mother is seen as blessed above all women, yet she's in a dirty barn with her baby and receives unexpected visitors who travel from afar and have vastly different approaches to living. They want to bring gifts or sit there in adoration of the baby. The light shines brightly on Christmas as the Light has come into the world.

Yet, collide these two events do, on the same day. One affects the moment, a fleeting time of pleasure followed by regret of overindulging in various ways, and the other is never lacking and always filled to the brim with an everlasting joy not able to be purchased with coupons clipped. With one, we are glad when its over as we are already wearied of all the "things" and seek to shut it all away as soon as possible. While the other seeks to celebrate for a few weeks after the official event, seeing how it is possible to accept a gift that adds joy more and more the longer you follow. A weariness doesn't come. The light doesn't fade.

For Exmas and the Rush distract the minds even of the few from sacred things. And we indeed are glad that men should make merry at Crissmas; but in Exmas there is no merriment left. 

"Xmas and Christmas" by C.S. Lewis