Over the hills and through the years, the faces of Christmas change, but their message brings home the same joyous feelings of the season. Though I have changed greatly in appearance, manners and beliefs, my perceptions of Christmas, though seen now through the eyes of an older man, are still met with an innocence of youth that runs up and walks along side me. I am grateful for each season of the spirit, no matter what it holds, no matter how bright the shining light.
My son and grandson came to visit the other day, and as I sat and listened to my two favorite men over a wonderful dinner, and finally a competitive game of dice, I heard in their voices those same echoes of my past that continue to replenish my heart and soul. Although I couldn’t see it with my eyes, whenever my grandson smiled, I could feel it from my toes to my nose. It was the same feeling that I received when my son, his dad, used to continuously hand directly to me, for what seemed a thousand years upon a very special day.
I write often of Christmas. I remember as I write, and oh how those memories choose to nestle in and keep me company. From my childhood, to the family that felt so much a part of me the other day, I wonder if it’s all meant to continue with a story, my story that with each year that passes by, keeps reminding me of how uniquely all of the ingredients of the seasons mix and blend themselves into a story that keeps gaining in momentum.
Try as I might, I can’t seem to shake the feelings of family through the season of Christmas. Try as I may, the tides of emotion seem to grab hold of an older man and shake the life back into him. It’s something that I can’t avoid, and it’s something that, at times, I feel compelled to write about. Passages and phrases and metaphors can’t do it the justice that it deserves, but I continue to write, none the less.
I remember as a child sitting by the picture window in our living room on a snowy winter’s night. Sitting next to the simple colored candle lights in the window, I would gaze out across a field of twilight magic, and as a winter’s snow tumbled quietly to the ground, a calm feeling of peace crept over and down through me. Focusing on the amazing colors of the waning day outside the window, to the reflected images of the Christmas tree behind me in the living room, their competing brilliance was outdone only by the story of the season at hand. Once again, it’s hard for me to describe this feeling, except to say that whenever I’m able to catch a glimpse of it these days, I’m instantly transported back through time to a moment in time, a passage in time, in my time, when a young boy didn’t have to worry about the need to describe it. All he had to do was sit back in his chair, close his eyes and just continue being a young boy, innocently caught up in the pure magic of the moment.
I wish I could think of different words to describe the feelings. I wish I could figure out how to phrase the emotions and memories so that everyone in the world could know what was churning in my heart. I wish and wish and then, I am reminded once again that the best part of these feelings, these emotions isn’t how I might be able to describe them, rather the most amazing part of it all is in effect, born from the simplest ingredient of all. Love.
Something that you can’t describe as a child, continues to be indescribable as an adult. No price tags, no monetary value, no hidden disclaimers or sales pitches, but a straight to the heart word that carries with it a magic that I hope you all are able to grab hold of this, and every season forward.
I feel, I write, therefore, I write what I feel.
May the joys of the Season keep good company with you all.
From a snowy ridge in Maine.