The best December I ever had in many ways was back in 2004. True, I was all alone, so this is “best” in really one specific context. But that was the year I decided, amidst awful degrading poverty and soul-rending separation from the woman I love, to accept the winter solstice as the fulcrum of my year. The cosmic pivot, if you will — for that’s exactly what it is. What we call Christmas is of course an overlay, the result of an attempt by the early church to counter or obscure long-standing pagan rituals. The original celebrations were based on astronomical fact, the undeniable truth that after the solstice, the days got longer as the sun returned. The corn god was reborn, etc. This isn’t the place to get into the scholarship of these things, but you can certainly look it up if this is news to you. I hope it isn’t!
Anyway, what I did in ’04 was build a solstice fire on the appropriate night and have my own little ritual. There was lots of snow on the ground then, so I did this right outside my front door, using a big old clay flowerpot to hold the sticks (yes, it was destroyed in the process). Beyond that though, no Xmas! I only sent out “solstice cards” to a few people and did no gift shopping that year. Nada. Not a one. I totally withdrew from the frenzy of the false solstice of the Xian priests with their marketing enablers and had no part in any seasonal hoo-rah. And friends, it was utterly beautiful: I felt like I was a visitor from the Planet of Peace. Just consider the following:
No rushing around to stores or the post office.
No “what shall we get for so-and-so.”
No incessant carols grating on my ears.
NO STRESS… and no guilt, either!
On the eve of the real New Year
Moreover, focusing on the actual moment when the daylight started to return gave me a real center, rooting me in the rhythm of the earth I walked on. Instead of waiting until the artificial date of January 1 to begin the new year, I started on December 22nd or thereabouts. It felt so right, so strong, so obvious. It was just what I needed then and wish I could have again.
The thing is, my own history with Xmas is a checkered one. Even now the tension is rising in my life. My sweetie is from Iowa, you see (God bless her), and there’s no way in hell I can get away with not “doing” Xmas. Too bad, because one way or the other, it usually ends up in a pounding for me. Definitely not anything resembling a “season of joy,” that’s for sure, more like a mine field of traumas waiting to be triggered. It ain’t easy to stand outside the collective on this one, chilluns! Every year of my adult life, it’s been a case of just keeping it together until it’s over, and I feel so grateful afterwards.
What I can do now that I couldn’t do before, however, with the help of hard-won knowledge of my own true soul, is hold the solstice in my heart, feel the seasons change, and try to let the rest go by. Centered in that way, I can smile and make my way through what I need to do, and does it ever make her happy. I’ll even be eating off of “Christmas plates” on green & red placemats for the next few weeks, ye gods.
As you might have guessed by now, we’re into several deeper issues here, all in some way connected to either my own dismal Anglo heritage or the crushing, clichéd hypocrisy and shadowed cruelty of what most call Christmas. (Mentioning the latter is taboo, though it’s there in spades.) But part of the wonder and enchantment of New Mexico are the Hispanic Christmas traditions, particularly here in el Norte. I’ve actually found solace in some seasonal activities, much to my surprise, initially. Compared to other places I’ve lived, it’s almost like an “anti-Christmas.” Whether by reason of centuries-old poverty, a simpler kind of Catholicism, the Native American influences, or just the natural warmth of Hispanic culture, I feel welcome here at Christmas. The emotions are genuine and shoot right to my heart. And it’s so different: I can go to mass (!) and see dancers from Taos Pueblo bring gifts of bread and cakes to the Virgen de Guadalupe. Instead of Christmas trees, you might see bonfires. And for the most part, there isn’t any goddamned bellowing of stupid English carols that nobody believes in. (“God rest ye merry gentlemen,” my ass. What about the women?!)
Spanish carols are quiet, soft, and delicate, like crystals of powder snow falling at 10 below under a canopy of stars. My honey has the blood of English ancestors flowing in her veins, but with a sensibility of unsurpassing gentleness, so she can feel the calmness of the culture and the mountains. It suits her to be here, whether she knows it or not, and more than “suits” me that she is.
The best December ever might be in the present moment, right beneath my nose.
Related posts:
- Message from the Cave
- Clean & Bright [retitled, revised]
- First Real Snow of December, 2008
- Solstice Snowstorm
- Christmas Music, Part III
Well, I totally believe you. My room at that Best Western was “okay,” just charmlessly...
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Sounds like you’re finding the real spirit of the season. As I like to say, it’s our presence, not the presents, that is important.
Namaste….
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