An alternative take on Christmas.
Standing outside before making my cup of tea, I took in the Christmas Morning. A vivid red glow in the south eastern sky presaged the rising sun, whilst the sky was a layer-cake of shades of grey and pink and custard yellow. There is a special sort of silence about Christmas Morning and this is no exception, wonderfully devoid of human mechanical sound. No cars, no boats, no trains, no planes. Peace and goodwill to all the earth. The twitter of distant birds but no dawn chorus this. So silent is the air, a faint illusive hum can be detected, perhaps the remnant sound of the planet hurtling through empty space or the mysterious music of the spheres? Despite my solitary and stationary presence, observing, listening, it still startles several pigeons from their night time reverie, smacking their wings to a further perch. As if taking the hint, a brace of Pheasant swoop down out of their Cyprus tree hide, into the green meadow, squawking in protest that their privacy has been disturbed surprising as much me, as I them! In this time of naked boughs, when nature pretends to sleep, the ever-greens, the Holm Oaks, the Pines provide a camouflaged resting place for birds of the air - the angelic winged messengers of heavenly sound. Surrounded by such a cloud of barren branches, the defiant Camelia remains glossy green, bedecked in gaudy blooms, incongruous, like a loose woman with rouge red cheeks, tempting and dangerous. Yet reminiscent of those exotic gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh - immutable, perfumed, cherishing. Preserving the divine myth of "God with us". Or perhaps not a myth? Perhaps he, she or it really is in the air? In the sap? In the synapse? In the blood? In the vital spirit? In the crib? In the flap of the pigeon's wing and the squawk of the pheasant disturbed? Now as the sun rises, black bark turns ochre, the clouds turn white, the sky turns blue. The day is born anew. Jupiter and Saturn aligned, have set, as they did two thousand and thirteen years before, over an Arab byre, announcing a special birth to divide humanity. Not that every birth is not a miracle, much taken for granted, except for the Mary and Josephs of the world. A bright point of light bring east and west together, before the blazing sun in all its glory, rises on another Christmas morning. The beginning of all genius and misery starts here. How many more before humans awaken to the mystery; desist from all desire, deceit, discontent and slaughter of the innocent? Ibrahim Colak(1) tweeted, "He had tried to be good but could not succeed." Yulia Galyamina(2) is to be sentenced on Christmas Day for waving the flag of freedom. How hard is it to be good? Living is hard. Good people can be crucified because of it. The seed of the end is always in the beginning. Salvation is in the story. So let us eat, drink and be merry, casting care to the wind, for tomorrow we die. We must celebrate both beginnings and endings, and let love reign, especially on a day such as this. "Glad tidings of great joy"?
