Thinking on command

The act of writing something on a daily basis presents a particular challenge. That is the need to think regularly, and think about things worth writing down. So many thoughts in a given day are trivial and mundane. Where is this? What did I do with that? What must be done next? What do they need? It would seem that nothing would get accomplished without these synaptic sinews to knit it all together. It is very difficult, though, to raise a mind from the forest floor to the treetops for any significant space of time. It poses a whole new collection of questions. For what purpose? In what direction? To what end? These are harder questions to answer. But they are much more satisfactory. The task at hand, it would seem, is to build mental periscopes, so that this dweller of the underbrush can live in the canopy as well.

Christmas without Christ

One wonders at the point of this as an endeavor. Joy and happiness over snow? So many don't have that. Joy and happiness over "things"? That is a rather arrogant limitation which imposes a poverty of spirit on those who possess a poverty of means. Time with family seems to offer a more promising type of pleasure, for those who have families worth celebrating. Those who have suffered loss or whose families conjure up pain and deprivation won't understand this as a source of joy, but they might appreciate the desirablity of these relationships. Personally, I find it very difficult to be happy this time of year. It is just so very dark. So much time is spent in darkness. And cold. If I could just sleep away the winter months, I would feel much more connected with my physical self. I do actually sleep away more than I should. But it irritates me to be awakened to the busyness of the season, and the bustle of activity is more overwhelming than it is exciting or pleasureable. It is the time of year when my mood and natural inclinations are most at odds with the imposed mood of the season. Count me in with the druids who celebrated the solstice as a turning point and the moment when hope for something better is sparked. And actually, the druids are closer to the Christian notion of Christmas than are any of those today who worship at the direction of Madison Avenue. A glimmer of hope, the spark of something turning, the beginning of something dawning. This spirit flows so naturally into the Christmas described by Luke in the Gospels. That is the one part of Christmas that I can actually get my mind around. Why the mournful Christmas carols move me more than the joyful ones. I can sing in April in ways that do not even touch me in December.

I am off to bed. Wake me up for Easter.