At this time of
year, people often tell me they are so looking forward to Christmas because
they see it as a reason for celebration and renewal, usually more in a temporal
than religious sense, as if Christmas will make everything bad in their lives
so much better, keeping up the momentum until New Year, and then…?
Too often, the bubble
of make-believe is burst soon enough as January arrives with all the
indifference to human potential of a Grim Reaper.
We may not be
altogether masters of our own fate, but life is what we make it. Mind and body may well be subject to external
influences, sometimes of the worst kind, but the human spirit is better than
that, and deserves to be given its head. The inner self knows us better than we
think we know ourselves, and more of us need to listen rather than turn a deaf
ear in favour of false (if attractive) promises the world often makes but has
no intention of keeping.
Christmas, like
all religious festivals is too often seen as signposting a sanctuary or at
least some respite or escape from the harsher elements of life threatening to overwhelm
us. Rarely, in my experience, will religion remove the threat for long; we need
to build on the spirit and spirituality of peace and love (religion may have
its share of both, but no monopoly), not be afraid to ask for help, and make a
better life for ourselves on terms we will not flinch from meeting, no matter
whether they are unacceptable to those who think they know us better than we
know ourselves.
CHRISTMAS, GLOSSING OVER MISSED OPPORTUNITIES
Rain soaking the
shirt, jeans;
body responding
freely
to Earth
Mother’s call to live,
let live, and
get real
Face upturned,
glad to be out
getting wet,
mind distracted;
domestic crises,
work targets
and assessments
wreaking
havoc (with the
best intentions)
stifling that
very inspiration
meant to
persuade, encourage,
leaves us
feeling like flies
feeding on
garbage left out
for the bin men,
fodder for stray
cats, dogs,
homeless folks, waiting
for Christmas
Oh, we may have
a job, home,
mortgage
etcetera - but a life
to call our own…?
Some may beg to
differ, thinking
through yet
another staff rota
at supper or marking
homework
once guests (finally)
gone home
to snug beds,
1001 nights and more
besides of cramming
heads,
misting-up eyes,
asking questions,
stirring up more
lies and half lies
meant to
persuade, encourage, only
to leave us
feeling like flies
on garbage left
for the bin men
to dispose
Christmas comes,
Christmas goes;
it’s the inner
self knows best
how to make the
most of a potential
too precious to
waste
Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2018
[Note: An earlier version of this poem
appears under the title 'Waiting for Christmas' in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time, Assembly Books, 2005; revised ed. in e-format
in preparation.]
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