Christmas day

is different for each of us.  One day of the year is laden with so many expectations.  Some of those expectations are impossible, even if we understand them with better clarity.

When I pause to consider, the hopes, the trepidation which a parent invests in a child, — as the years spool out it becomes apparent that the child inevitably becomes a young adult, or even a middle aged adult with children of their own, — beset with blind-spots, and deficiency of action, as were we their parents.  By what standard of reason do we think that a newborn in a manger will liberate us from our credulity, from our co-dependency upon authoritarian leaders, and from a system that is brutal at heart?

And yet, what would we be without the untamed, irrational, wild hope of Christmas?  Would not life be more grim, society more entangled in superstition, more wracked by charlatans of commerce and politics and — the darkness unrelieved?

We participate in Christmas by exchanging gifts.  Even a simple handmade gift symbolizes the regard which we have for one another.  The “cost” of a gift may take many forms and is not always measured in money.  Something offered at expenditure of much time and intention can be a most precious gift.

Are not the relations between ourselves and others composed of the goodwill upon which we all depend?  Of course.  And in those relations that are closest, is there not a dimension of irony?  There is more, much more to that individual, than the apparent surface that I perceive, that I comprehend.  I am taken by surprise by what is disclosed by a spouse, a friend, or a partner with whom I have a greater than superficial relationship.

And sometimes I am surprised by how well they “get” me.

What did you give

and what did you receive this Christmas?  Often the best gifts are immaterial, such as time spent in agreeable conversation, or as simple as a helpful gesture.

Many problems of the world cannot be fixed.  And I, I must carry on in the bare awareness of my own bias, my inclination to rectify with words, a reality that is impermeable, that I’ll never quite understand.