Next year will be exactly like any other – not a thing at all like any other.
A blank page if you will. One that we get to fill meticulously in, or scribble helter-skelter upon, in any way that we see fit. In any way we see – or don’t see – imaginable.
Choose your words wisely, make the story that you write one that is worth reading.
Peace =)
*Ahem*
“Happy birthday to You,
Happy birthday to You,
Happy birthday,
Happy birthday to you.“
For some, Christmas lights will be twinkling and a new born savior babe will appear beneath the brightest star.
For others, eight magical candle-lit nights will be followed by eight magical smile-filled days, and a temple will be reborn.
A few more will be sharing the Yule Feast with family and friends, in celebration of the solstice of winter.
And for others still, an extra long weekend will simply be enjoyed and celebrated – all because there’s a whole bunch of people out there who just happen to believe in things like savior babes and magical lights.
Regardless of what persuasion you happen to be this year, i hope you enjoy your holiday season to it’s fullest. i hope you enjoy all the food you eat too much – or not too much – of. i hope you enjoy your wine. Unless you don’t drink of course. i hope that your celebrations are merry, boisterous and bright. Unless you prefer to stay home, quietly snuggled up in front of the fire, real or imagined. Most importantly though, i hope – i pray – that you take the time to enjoy the people in your life, and reflect upon how important they are. How important we all are. Together we are a living web, each of us merely a strand, and none of us truly able to survive without the others. Whether created or coincidental, we’re all we’ve got, and that’s exactly good enough.
Thank you for being a part of my web this year, and i sincerely hope that the Naughty List finds not your name upon it.
Peace!
t
While not a Christmas tradition per say, tomorrow will see me performing one more ritual for the holiday season. This one is relatively new, a scant nine years old, and it is a tradition that i would be much happier without. You see, tomorrow, i will place all my Christmas music to the side and spend the day listening solely to decidedly non-seasonal tunes laid down by The Clash, The 101ers and The Mescalero’s instead. Why you ask? Especially this close to the blessed babe’s birth? Well, it’s because all three of the bands noted above were at one time led by a certain Joe Strummer, and tomorrow just happens to mark the ninth anniversary of his death.
“So? Big Whoop – it’s not like you knew the guy or anything, right?” Right. i didn’t know him, but i could swear that he knew me. At least it seemed that way, since he so often spoke almost directly to my concerns, my fears and my outrage. Across space and time he – along with his band mates – helped me to understand at a tender age not only the world around me, but my place in it as well. As i mentioned previously, Joe and the boys defended my right to be me, only after first helping me understand who i was in the first place. Prior to their introduction, i was lost – well, more lost than afterwards – in a sea of confusion, with my floundering about wondering who i was exactly, and why i couldn’t seem to fit in anywhere. Joe helped me to see that we’re all in the same boat. That no one truly ever “fits in” anywhere, so you just have a find a somewhere to your liking. And if none exist that you’re partial too, then just go out and make your own. Sooner or later others will join you, and in the end, you’ll either find your “fit”, or it will find you.
Musically speaking, years before Darin would solidify the thought, Strummer planted the seed in me that it was OK – cool even – to dig all kinds of music, instead of simply keeping to one narrow tunnel or another. Through him, i was introduced not only to punk of the intelligent variety, but also reggae, dub, garage, rap and the groundwork for what would many years later would be called “revival swing”. I could almost make a case for his dabbling in gothic music as well, but my argument just doesn’t have enough teeth to pull it off. Regardless, as a result of his example, i can now enjoy both my punk and my broadway, my metal and my bossa nova. Heck, i could even like country if it wanted to. i just don’t want to.
Regardless of the musical style used to best get his point across at any given time, Joe also helped me to understand that it’s quite all right to announce your disgust over injustices that you see. It’s fine and/or dandy to stand one up against a hundred, as long as you know that the hundred are wrong, and that the One is right. He helped me to recognize that my voice was important, just by it’s mere existence. However, he also let me know that my voice shouldn’t be heard until it was informed, committed, and capable of having a positive effect over a negative one.
Now, did Joe have the same impact on me as other arms-length luminaries such as Martin Luther King, Jr., C.S. Lewis or Jesus even? No. But he certainly let me know – with a very cool British accent by the way – that inspiration doesn’t only come from history books or the bible. It can come from your shoulder-slung boom box or scrawled across the back of a record sleeve as well. He let me know that intelligence is a right that must be exercised by every citizen regardless of their social standing, and complacency is not an option. In short, he – along with a long string of others – helped me to become the man i am today. And while he may be no more deserving of praise than anyone else in that long string, today just happens to be the anniversary of the day he died unexpectedly of heart failure, leaving the world a little poorer in the process. As such, i feel it’s right and proper to celebrate his life – and his impact on mine – by placing all my Christmas music to the side and spending the day with The Clash, The 101ers and The Mescalero’s instead.
i could go on in even mushier detail about the impact Joe has had on me, all while trying desperately to describe his ideology further (and my kinship towards it as a result), but i think he said it much better than i ever could, and as such, i’ll allow him to wrap up this post in words befitting:
“And so now I’d like to say – people can change anything they want to. And that means everything in the world. People are running about following their little tracks – I am one of them. But we’ve all got to stop just following our own little mouse trail. People can do anything – this is something that I’m beginning to learn. People are out there doing bad things to each other. That’s because they’ve been dehumanized. It’s time to take the humanity back into the center of the ring and follow that for a time. Greed, it ain’t going anywhere. They should have that in a big billboard across Times Square. Without people you’re nothing. That’s my spiel.”
― Joe Strummer, 1952 – 2002
* The title of this post is a comment made by Joe Strummer when being asked how he would like his name to appear during the introduction to the documentary about him called “The Future Is Unwritten.“
To look at my dad, you might think he was much more of a “We Three Kings Of Orient Are” kind of guy, when in fact “The Little Drummer Boy” is actually his wassail of choice. This is so much the case, that i find myself asking him almost annually to clarify which of the two it is that is actually his favorite. i seem to recall being told while growing up that his reasoning behind picking the latter over the former was due to the drumming involved. But as anyone who’s heard the song knows, there’s damned little use of actual drums throughout the arrangement, especially when in consideration of its subject matter. Now as dad is nearing his end, he’s becoming much more expressive, and is sharing a lot more of whom he really is with me. That, or i’m just finally paying attention. Either way, i can now see that what i’ve long suspected to be true really is. Dad is a bigger fan of the drummer boy, at least in part, because he feels much more kinship with that one unsure boy than he does with any and all of the three wise men.
The difference between the two is pretty stark. Whereas the kings are driven with purpose and sure in their knowledge, the little drummer boy is a straggler, who simply happens upon his miracle in lieu of actively searching it out. The kings come ready, bearing gifts that admittedly – if delivered to a child of this day in age, would most likely be exchanged before the day’s end – but are still respectful enough. The drummer boy however, comes with even less, having only a song in his heart. A little ditty that he doesn’t even recognize as having any kind of worth. And therein lies the shame, and the message, of the song. The drummer boy is valued not because the song he plays is wonderful, practiced or Billboard chart-worthy, but rather because it is of himself. Simply and solely unique to him, and possible only through him. Given freely and with more than a bit of embarrassment, of all the “gifts” given, his is the one that the babe smiles upon. His is the one that the Christ child cherishes more than even he himself does.
Like so many of us struggling through life – or more to the point, accepting ourselves during this struggle of life – the little drummer boy seeing no apparent worth to his song is an extension of how he feels about his self. And i think my dad feels that very acutely in his own life at times as well. Much more so than he’s ever previously let on to at least, both to those around him, and to himself. Knowing my own self (but not trying to project “me” onto him), i feel that dad may also have spent a good deal of his life feeling unworthy. Feeling “wrong”. Feeling like his song was without value. Seeing him as i do now, i get the feeling that dad too has struggled with the idea that Christ could love him for no apparent reason. Even though he does. And he does, not because dad played for him a Top Of The Pops hit, but simply because dad “played his best for him.” Because for Jesus, your best is exactly good enough. For many of the rest of us though – dad and myself included – it’s not even close enough to obtain a passing grade. Seeing as Jesus sits at the right hand, i suppose his opinion trumps ours, but you try and tell my dad that. My dad, who might have acted as if he were a king, but only ever felt himself to be a drummer boy. My dad, who may not realize that the kings were majestic, yet humbled by the babe. The drummer boy however, a person of seemingly little importance, was made great by this same child. All with one little smile of acceptance. The drummer boy left the scene redeemed. My dad needs to follow suit. i hope he does. He deserves to.
i’m proud of my drummer boy dad, and i fear that these days, there are far too few drummer boys left. Or put another way ’round, i fear there are far too many who would consider themselves “kings” hanging about. The problem being that these new royals are not necessarily of the wise, or even moderately shrewd, variety. While they may have crowns upon their heads, these were purchased instead of earned, bought instead of granted. Many of the crowns worn today only go to show that you can trample on the needs of the many in order to meet with your own personal desires, and simply covering yourself in gold doesn’t make you more valuable. Spewing forth catch-phrases eschewing positive thoughts doesn’t make you an actual force for change either. And beating others over the head with how “awesome” you are doesn’t necessarily make it so. If you want to be more valuable, give instead of taking, even when no one’s looking. Especially when no one’s looking. Should you desire to be a force for change, then change your own life instead of others, conducting yourself in an ethical fashion. Even the times when it doesn’t work to your advantage to do so. If you want to be awesome, start doing awesome things within your scope of talent for those who could use your help, and place others first. Not just your “others”, but others “others” as well. Do the little drummer boys of this world need to suck it up and learn some self-love? By all means. But the new “kings” would also do well to turn it down a notch, and start spreading love around instead. Not just in word, but deed as well.
It’s the final week before Christmas, and this is my third-to last post about the holiday season. Well, for this year at any rate. i apologize for my brief soap-boxian moment just now, but it is only because my hope – albeit wholly naive to the point of being absolutely moronic to even voice in public – is that all the wise men, the kings and the drummer boys of this world can use this week ahead to ready ourselves. Not so much for the birth of the newborn king – as that will come whether we’re ready or not, and regardless of our acceptance of it – but rather, to actually put into action all the peace, love and goodwill spoken of so freely during this time of year as a result of his coming. We don’t need to be perfect at it, we just need to agree to it, to keep at it daily and to do our best always. And in turn, our best will be exactly good enough.
Heck, stranger things have happened…
He laid in a crib made from scrap plywood, 1X2’s and a smattering of nails. The crib is long gone, but i’m pretty sure that the beige (yes, beige) paint that was used to cover any imperfections lives on somewhere. It was simply far too ugly a color as to not have some sort of half-life associated with it. In fact, thinking back, this crib was one of the rare items my dad created without the aid of shellac. Possibly because it was before he had yet discovered the stuff, but i tend to think it was really just all in a effort to enforce our memories of the crib – and the tradition associated with it – all the more.
Baby Jesus wasn’t in the crib when it first took it’s honored position in the corner of the kitchen, atop a T.V. tray that was made of fake dark wood top and completed by fake golden trim and leg. The kind of legs designed to snap easily into little plastic junctures located beneath the surface, that simply screamed anytime you placed anything greater than a pound or two upon the tray’s top. Beside the crib was a bag of hay, freshly purchased but never blessed. i have never once taken the time to ask my folks where, exactly, they found a source for little plastic bags of hay, but trust me, that’s all it was. And usually the bag was just big enough as to fill the crib to overflowing should all of it’s contents be dumped within. But all of it’s contents never were. No, as noted last time, how much of the stuff went into the crib was dependent upon us. Well, our good (or bad) deeds at any rate. Fortunately for both us and the babe, our activity was only monitored in this fashion from the time Advent began until Christmas morn. For every good deed, a handful of hay went into the crib, and for every bad deed, a handful came out.
i seem to recall hazily at one point that we were able to convince dad that he created an offense so great as to warrant his removing a handful of hay, but other than this one partially-remembered instance, the task of filling or emptying the crib lay solely on us three children. The parents apparently thinking they were above judgement and/or contribution. As to what my dad’s offense was, i can’t remember. But both the fact that we had mom on our side AND he actually conceded in pulling his fair share from the trough ensured that whatever it was, it must have been a doozie, even more grievous than our child-like minds understood it to be. Dad was never one to admit wrong-doing or error of any sort, and i have a inkling that once he does get up to heaven, he’ll spend a good amount of time telling God just exactly how He should have done it all.
Regardless, from the day the crib was laid down upon the table to the morn of Christ’s birth, we worked feverishly to perform some sort of good deed on an almost daily basis. The bad deeds seem to come a lot easier, and sadly, it took the three of us much too long to recognize the fact that tattling on each other when these deeds occurred served absolutely no one’s best interest. Bad deeds by the way, also included (but never were counted) items such as making up tales of fictional good deeds as well as randomly sneaking partial handfuls into the crib, both done to bolster the hay count before the blessed day of birth. Never was a full handful attempted on the sly, for surely mom would know. And she would have. All said, i’m none too sure if the crib-stuffing practice helped us to be good boys, or simply aided us in our training of the art of deceit. Possibly a bit of both. None of it mattered however, as long as the crib was at the level of “comfy” for Baby Jesus to snuggle down in by Christmas day (i seem to remember that one year it was not, but the memories of that event are far too sketchy as to recall them here).
Then, bright and early on Christmas morning (and in my house, it was much more early than bright, in that the sun hardly ever rose to meet with us at four AM when we were jumping from our sacks), we would get up and huddle close together under the tree in nervous anticipation of mom and dad also getting out of bed. Once they did, we would move the TV tray to the living room beside the tree. After placing Jesus – resplendent in a blue wrap and bow long since lost – into his crib and lighting the candle that was jammed happily into his birthday cupcake, we would rush through a half-hearted version of “Happy Birthday”. The faster we three sang, all the slower our parents did in response. It took several years to figure all this out and determine that the quickest way to get it over with was to simply sing it correctly first time around. We sang in haste, because it was only after we completed the song, blew out the candle and… well, i have no earthly idea or recollection as to what we did with the cupcake. Who the flip cared? The song was over! And while the cupcake was apparently having something done to it seeing as we never saw it again, the three of us were ravaging through the brightly packaged boxes under the tree, all in the hopes that the store Santa we saw was the real deal. Or at least had taken careful mental note of our desires (seeing as he was never with pen or paper), reporting them back correctly to the big man.
We followed this tradition each and every year for i don’t know how many years. Each and every year except one. As is the case so often, i firmly place all the blame on what we have dubbed “That One Time” (as in, “do you remember that one time…”) upon my older brother. He had to be the one who told us that morning, as we sat glassy-eyed under the tree in wonderment, that he had checked with mom and she had said it was OK to unwrap the gifts before we sang. If it wasn’t him who said it, it would have been my little brother. And that couldn’t have been the case, because we never listened to him anyway. By the time mom and dad became aware of our transgressions, almost every box was unwrapped, every Christmas dream revealed, and while i don’t remember specifics, i do recall that it was a year with a particularly good haul. Mom was devastated that we had done such a thing, and dad – who had yet had the heart attack that would mellow him – went utterly and simply. Ape. Shit. Do you know how in cartoons, a character is occasionally shown with their head expanding to the point of explosion? i could swear that on that morn, my dad’s head actually did exactly that. Fortunately a new one grew back relatively quickly, but unfortunately as soon as it had, he made us re-wrap all the presents and place them under the tree again. OK, that last part might be a bit of an exaggeration – i can’t recall if we actually had to rewrap the gifts (but it sure felt as if we did), but we did have to re-tree each and every one and march off promptly back to bed, empty-handed.
We all three laid there, wondering if we were ever going to celebrate Christmas again. The pain was made all the worse by the fact that we already knew what awaited us, present-wise. After what felt like 80 years or so, my folks finally told us we could get up, and when we sheepishly returned to the living room, we saw Baby Jesus there by the tree, the cupcake in place and the candle lit. We were actually being allowed a “do-over” from my dad! Christmas miracles abounded! The thrill we felt at being saved further punishment far outweighed even the desire to get back to the presents, and i’m pretty sure that year was the very prettiest we ever did sing “Happy Birthday” to Baby Jesus.
To this day, mom always puts in my kids cards “remember to sing to Baby Jesus”, but we never do. i may be a bad parent, but i just don’t want my children to be bullied into their faith. It took me too many years to actually come back around and actively “choose” mine. Now, while we don’t sing as a family, i will let you in a little secret – i don’t sing it alone either. But every year, i do catch myself at one point or another very quietly closing my eyes for a brief moment and saying “Happy birthday Jesus.”
as long as i'm singing 