I suspect that this is the kind of day that many a Great American Novel was written. Rainy and gray and cold. Why not write? Or many a great American nap taken, also a great achievement. There is nothing else to do.
Of course that is not true, there is much to do. It is just not stuff that I want to do. Suddenly I feel like I did as a child right after Christmas. No more presents to unwrap. No more parties and family gatherings to go to. Nothing new to anticipate. It's raining. I'm bored. But it's best to stay out of the way and not make noise lest I be required to help clean up the aftermath of Christmas.
The aftermath of Christmas?
What do we do with this mess? Everything is out of place. It's hard to remember what day it is. The carefully edited calendar is useless. And just a week ago everything was in order. It all looked so pretty, so nice, when everything was wrapped and tied with a bow. Every decoration was perfectly placed, every nativity or St. Nick-nackery positioned just so. The tree was decorated with the perfect balance of lights, and ornaments, top to bottom, side to side. The glistening china was out and the table was set. The stockings were hung not only with care, but geometric perfection.
Then Christmas exploded all over everything. Wrapping paper, ribbon and boxes are everywhere. Stockings are ransacked, empty and wadded on the floor. The tree looks lonely and slightly off center without the gifts as its foundation. Used coffee cups and tea glasses and cake plates are scattered on the mantel and the buffet and the coffee table, with wadded up napkins and forks and chicken bones. Chicken bones. And crumbs. And plastic things that may be packing parts or may be a critical piece of electronics lie waiting as traps on the floor for the unwary bare foot.
Christmas happens, thank God.
(For the sake of accuracy, I did not experience all of that stuff this year. Some of it, but not all of it. It is a compilation, not exhaustive, but exhausting enough, of several years of experience. Call it artistic license. Historical fiction.)
More than once during this Christmas season I watched parents squirm and frown as their small children, filled with anticipation and wonder, could not sit still in worship services, or ran through stores, or cried and screamed on Santa's lap while cameras and long lines waited, or spilled juice on a frilly dress, or disrupted adult conversations in the living room, or burned stuff in the candle flames, or constantly photo-bombed parents' serious portrait attempts.
They were out of control. Or at least out of their parents' control. The children knew exactly what they were doing.
And so it is when Christmas happens. When Christmas explodes.
Love was born into this world as a child. A child that his parents could not control. That Love child grew into a man, into a Love that the powers of the world could not control, and they still cannot.
But we still try. We try to keep things in order. People in their place. Everything and everyone boxed and wrapped and tied up pretty. Even ourselves. Maybe especially ourselves.
But this Love is uncontrollable. It explodes. It makes messes.
What are we supposed to do about the mess?
Live with it.
Live in it.
Hallelujah.
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