To thine own self be true

He slid down
the Sunday hill, below
his house in Vermont.

In a distant church
an organ proclaimed
it was Christmas.

The boy walked on
with his sled,
blown by the wind.

The pews were half-full
as the choir entered
two-by-two.

Snow began to fall
upon the desolate field.
The boy kept his season alone.

Eternity was white
on the steeple spire
as “The Carol of the Bells” began.

A boy saw his shadow
on the snow, the sun low
along the horizon.

The thick flakes
and his cold walk
had become A Question.

“Silent Night” began
and the choir lit
its candles

as the boy rushed
up the steps outside
to open a tall oak door.

He entered with his boots,
red tuque and scarf,
moving up the aisle.

An old man at the back
of the church turned
to greet the boy

and held out a candle
to light the one
he offered him.

A girl in a black dress
played her violin as the hymn
burned brighter now.

Afterward, across the field
boy and man walked as one
in the fading light.

The steeple bell pealed
softly behind them as they
climbed the hill to home.

No contest. Walkers! Made since 1898 A.D.
Nothing like opening a large tin of “Our Premium Selection” Pure Butter Shortbread to enjoy with one’s afternoon holiday tea and into January.

6 Degrees of Separation–my daughter works at a desk adjacent to that of Fiona, baker-founder Joseph Walker’s great-great granddaughter.

Every year at this time I break out my favorite Christmas CD–the diamond anniversary edition of Holiday Inn and White Christmas with songs by the great Irving Berlin. Warm memories of watching those movies annually with my parents on the old black and white through the ’50s and ’60s, remembering their enthusiasm for the vision of life and Christmas presented by those two classics. The big band sounds of another era–the ’40s and ’50s–and the best and happiest of what they remembered of their times–all come back with each song.

Listening to the CD, I remember my Dad singing along with Bing Crosby, the feeling I had while watching each song or dance number. Exquisite and exceedingly sweet or precious–all of it. It all comes back–those times, those memories, those deep bonds, the feelings of those times–the ’40s and ”50s, magically communicated 71 years later (Holiday Inn, 1942) and 59 years later (White Christmas, 1954), the memories of war camaraderie in the latter movie, and the sorts of extremes one would go to, to honour those who had once been part of one’s (war) life. So special, remarkable, and now-thoroughly, but charmingly passé.

I appreciate the places and memories I return to each year thanks to the following songs:
Happy Holiday
White Christmas
I’ll Capture Your Heart
You’re Easy to Dance With
Lazy
Abraham
Be Careful It’s My Heart
I Can’t Tell a Lie
Easter Parade
Song of Freedom
I’ve Got Plenty to Be Thankful For
Let’s Start the New Year Right
Snow
Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep
What Can You Do with a General?
The Old Man/Gee I Wish I Was Back in the Army

Once one gets past the tragic darkness in/of It’s a Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol, there are these two wonderful movie takes on Christmas, and if one ever needs more of a lift, one needs look no further than an old New Year’s tv favorite–the effervescent Singin’ in the Rain with the ever-sunniful Gene Kelly.

Romance, comedy, history, and making-your-own-fun-and dreams-come-true. All such large and wonderful seasonal worlds that lift any sagging year-end spirits–movies and music that have delightfully transcended time and our oh-so-limited/limiting, diminishing modern era.

(ps/ Edmonton had 40 more cms. of snow than usual in Nov-Dec.)                              

Always at this time of year, at the most frigid of times, I resort to imagination and healthful viewing to warm the cockles of mind, heart and soul. It is as simple as putting on my Visions of Italy, Sicily, and Greece DVDs. And there it all is–all that any frozen humanitarian could ever want–the regions of the beginnings of Western civilization in their warm sunny splendor gloriously from the air! The quaint red-roofed towns, the grey rocky coasts that spill into the sea, the warm sun-baked lands with vineyards, the deserted but often intact ruins and castles and churches, the green trees springing up from the sun-baked streets, the dark blue or green waters and the pale or brilliant blue skies.

The longer I live, the more I’m convinced that the main essence/raison d’etre remains consciousness, (especially that fostered and developed by imagination), the raising of spirits as simple as some will, some consciousness of what is most needed, and then the application of whatever resources. If this means spending $$$ for whatever, it hardly/never matters to me. One must finally minister to one’s self and be responsible for whatever attitudes, soul-moods, and freedom one wishes to have. Will logically follows (‘A man can do all things if he will.”–Alberti), then the availability and application of whatever resources, taking/making the time for such, and exercising those soul-nurturing choices.

-30 Edmonton no longer exists for me as I now go outdoors. Only Sicily–the inner warmth of that state of soul, that so-civilized climate, that sunny warm disposition and sensibility. It all begins with imagination and the conscious individual.

I was five-years-old. We were living a year with my father’s mother in a big old house on Thompson Drive, then in the outskirts of St. James with only Kirkfield Park west of us. My grandmother always had men rooming with her and one of them, Matt, a large gruff man, was very ill and somewhat angry about having me around the house. My parents were working in the day then and I was probably getting underfoot so my grandmother sent me outside to play on a cold windy day on the snow-covered garden plot beside the house (I presume she didn’t want me to wander off).

I may have had a sled, but mostly was digging about in the drifts. She would call me in later for Howdy Doody, a ’50s tv program for kids in the late afternoon. Anyway, as I tried to play in the snow,  I imaginatively transferred Matt’s condition to myself there outside and pondered what it might be like to die. I finally decided that it would be better to die in the house watching Howdy Doody, and then my grandmother called me in.

Just a few moments ago, this afternoon almost 60 years later, lying on the couch in the darkened living room, the big tree ablaze with glorious lights and decorations, listening to the holy-voiced English choirs of the Christmas 101 CD, singing carols and other seasonal music I had not heard for many a year, thinking ‘Yes, this would be a fine way to go. I could not imagine a better exit at Christmas time.’ Until I remembered a five year-old-boy playing by himself for what seemed like hours, imagining a better, more perfect finale–while watching Howdy Doody.

Meanwhile back on Earth…

When least expected, the ’24-hour-flu’ or a case of possible eating-out food poisoning. Take your pick.

Guaranteed to take the wind out of one`s sails abruptly and rather debilitatingly. To be sick this way makes one appreciate normal, usual health. One is reduced to limited mobility (usually to a couch, bed, and bathroom). The toxicity is determined to have its way with a person as one discovers new meanings of weakness, smelly burps, violent illness, godawful mess, and patience. There is not much one can do except wait it out. Like most ordeals, nature and time eventually heal all. Hope and triumph become reduced to trifles such as unsalted Premium Plus crackers and pure apple juice.

And if the illness continues into night, one`s dreams may take over. Last night I found myself with one of my favorite movie actresses, Deborah Kerr, on a relatively solitary beach in a `50s-styled-black-and-white-dream. Of all the movie women who interested me, she would be the first and most recurrent favorite. When I think of the late Kerr, I recall such unusual movies as The Innocents, The Arrangement, The Naked Edge, and Night of the Iguana. My impressions of her: a proper lady always, a readiness to take on the world or any situation, her romanticness, and her potential sensuous passion (The Arrangement, From Her to Eternity–the classic beach scene with Burt Lancaster). And always, there was her energy, perfect face, remarkable eyes, accent, and charm. (Only two other more recent movie actresses could match, for me, the power of her face and eyes–Juliette Binoche and Catherine Deneuve).

Well, what was that dream all about? We exchanged very civil words, but there was no roll in the waves. In some strange way, it was comforting, though, being with this older woman who had cared for many characters in her various movies. Sometimes dreams, life, and illness come down to feelings of familiarity and safety. We gravitate, through fantasy and the imagination, to those who and that which heals or gives us ease. And so it was that spending time with the beautiful Kerr helped facilitate my recovery of health and a return to my necessary inner life.

To magically return to the weft of glorious feelings and sensuous detail that complement the warp of various personal knowings, understandings, and appreciations. An exalted ideal pattern, indeed.

“(with up so floating many bells down)”
“they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same”
“children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew”
“(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember”
“wish by spirit and if by yes”

–E.E. Cummings, excerpts-pastiche from “anyone lived in a pretty how town”

…………………………..

Just in time for Christmas reflection. A found offering on poetry’s truths and ‘hidden messages’. ‘The process’ and the typically unrealized/unactualized, beautiful possibilities of human life.                                                                            

Also, Cummings’ take (in 7 separate lines, no less!) on Auden’s Time poems and Wordsworth’s “Ode: Intimations on Immortality”. The microcosmic, metaphorical magic that is poetry.

“It is not half so important to know as to feel.”–Rachel Carson, The Sense of Wonder

What he said:

Overheard via intercom when he filled his drawers:

“Uh,oh. Oh no!’

After having his nose cleaned out by his Dad:

(looking sad, claps hands) “Thanks, Da-da.”

While pointing at Christmas tree in living room:

“No touch. Just look.”

Excitedly letting go of helium balloon in house:

“Up, up, up…”

Looking outside the living room window:

“Brr, cold!”

Clicking his drinking cup against my glass:

“Cheers!”

………………………………………….

A whole range of expressions has opened up for this 23-month-old. He is enjoying the possibilities of language as he imitates, tries word combinations, and discovers new words each day. He definitely looks like he has more control of his world and can say what he thinks and feels.

These days he is busy with his big building blocks, puzzles, dancing to music, drawing, and books. A continuous life of projects.