UU CHRISTMAS

The very name, ‘Unitarian Universalist’ sounds suspiciously, ‘Science Fiction’ or worse; like where you might go for someone to read the bumps on your head. But it is in fact, a religious tradition with roots that go back to Romania in the 1500’s. With centuries of pushback against the Roman Church's doctrines of the Trinity and the divinity of Christ; with emphasis on reconciliation rather than ‘either-or’ judgment; the early UU's moved in another direction. Modern Unitarian-Universalism is a liberal religious movement that no longer identifies as Christian. If you need an ‘ism’ to associate with their roots it would be Humanism; that everything we need to fulfill our purpose was inherent at birth. We don’t need to please God; whether or not there is a God is irrelevant. Many UU’s are atheist or agnostic. So, when I tell folks I went to church on Christmas Eve they likely assume it was a Christian church and the traditions we keep are the same as theirs. 

But this is not a history of Unitarian-Universalism. It’s a short story about my Christmas eve. If you had been there you would have noticed a few different twists but it was pretty traditional. The story came straight from the New Testament book of Luke. Rather than read it from the bible, our children took turns describing the manger scene, one element at a time. As they did, characters and scenery were added; the nativity scene was assembled in front of our eyes. In the end, it was about a wonderful story. We sang traditional Christmas carols, with a few edits of course; just enough that it wouldn’t be confused with “Worship.” What we did fell short of worship. It was simply paying respect, honoring a cultural tradition that is so widely celebrated. The idea of peace on earth and good will to all people is certainly embraced in our religious principles. What we truly believe is that Myth is the foundation of all religion and Metaphor is what we are left with. Our job is figure out how to glean a kernel of truth from that mysterious mix and give it legs to stand on. 

There were readings from contemporary authors that uplifted the human spirit. We take it on ourselves to be instruments of peace and justice rather than depend on God to send us a savior. We sang all the verses of Silent Night, in the dark, as a single flame was passed candle to candle and the room took on a glow. I heard my own voice, amazed it was in tune with the musicians on the stage. The idea of peace crossed my mind; not the pause between fights but the flash of insight that we are all, everyone of us, bits of star dust on a timeless passage. Out of my mouth came the words, “. . . sleep in heavenly peace,” the melody tails and the words repeat, “. . . sleep in heavily peace.” 

Afterward, in the lobby, we rubbed shoulders, drank hot cider, wished everyone, even people we didn’t know, “Merry Christmas.” At the church down the street it would have been about Baby Jesus but in our case it was about, “God bless us every one.” We celebrate many holidays, from other traditions; not because we believe in their miracles but because we would be inclusive rather than exclusive. It’s not easy, even for people who make it their purpose, to be inclusive. Prejudice and pride are universal ills, no one is immune, we have to diagnose our own shortfalls and be our own medicine. On my way home I stopped for coffee with friends at their place. What a Christmas present; friends. Then, in the car, for no particular reason I remembered the movie ‘Chirstmas Story’ where Ralphie was obsessed with the Red Ryder BB gun. His BB gun was under the tree but their Christmas dinner was ruined and they had to eat Chinese at the only open restaurant, and it was the best Christmas ever. 

STRAWBERRIES IN DECEMBER

Solstice; this is the most celebrated day in human history. Our hunter-gatherer ancestors were every bit as smart as we are, they just lacked the body of knowledge that we have inherited and a manageable means of assimilating information. There were only 3 or 4 cards in their deck and their mentality had to conform to that, but they understood the cycling of seasons, that spring brought new life, that summer was bountiful, that fall ushered in winter, a time to hunker down and endure. Whether or not they could count, they could make sense of how the sun’s arc slid lower and deeper in the south. The lower it dipped, the colder it got. Food was harder to come by and life itself, just making it through the day, ranged from challenging to near impossible. I don’t think they sat around like the Greeks, pondering the meaning of life. For practical purposes, they were not much different than a cluster of black birds I saw at a stop light yesterday. The wind was fierce out of the south and they were all perched in the same tree, facing into the wind, riding it out, only a meal and a drink between them and doom. Flying in that wind would have been self defeating and even birds know better. For our forbearers it was; take care of each other, be safe, find food and a safe place to sleep, take care of each other and then meet a new day. The birds had found a safe place and they were sticking together.

Prehistoric people made the connection between the sun’s low trajectory and the length of shadows. By word of mouth, oral tradition, they knew that there was one day, one particular day as the sun sank lower and lower, that it stopped sinking. Shadows stopped getting longer and in a few days, shadows began to shorten. Obviously, it would take a few months of arduous survival for long days and warm nights again but it was a cycle and they knew the cold, dark times would, in time, give way to spring and then summer. 

I can only imagine how primitive people took comfort in that knowledge; maybe an early link between trial & error and critical thinking. In the grips of winter, they knew that spring would come again. All they had to do was persevere and make do; the sun would rise higher and higher until flowers bloomed and bore fruit. The primitive part of me thinks that would be a good reason to celebrate. They knew about alcohol and they knew which plants would numb the brain, temporary relief from the stress and struggle that was normal as day and night. I suspect that was about the time people had begun attributing the mysterious to some kind of deity, religion. I think they celebrated, one way or another, being hopeful if not thankful, enjoying that short pause between the most recent crisis and what lay ahead. 

I’ll celebrate this shortest day, the longest shadow of the year as well. I have a couple of friends coming over this evening. We will feed a fire in the chiminea on my patio; something primal about fire, and feed ourselves high quality foods that our ancestors could not have imagined. When Isaac Newton was elevated to the Royal Society, UK’s National Science Academy, he remarked, “If I have seen farther, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” If we see farther, it is by standing on the shoulders of thousands of generations of ancestors who did the heavy lifting, so we can set the thermostat to suit our comfort level; so we can have strawberries in December. I know people who take winter for granted so much so, all they do is buy a ticket and fly south. I must be weird because I tolerate cold weather, I actually like the cold. From childhood, there has always been something empowering about the crunch of snow underfoot and seeing your breath on a frosty morning. I don’t have to hope for good weather, or fly away; I hope I wake up tomorrow and my friends are all healthy and well, that we get together and celebrate something, anything that feels right and does no harm. 

NOT MY MONKEY

Why people do the things they do, say the things they say, assume that their priorities concern you at all; who knows, who cares? But you do care when it unfolds on your plate and in your lap. I once believed that the statement, “I don’t care,” was callous if not rude. Whatever it is that prompts such a response must have been important to someone. To say that you don’t care is, by extrapolation, a rejection of the other person. For a long time, that phrase was just not in my vocabulary; I might not have cared but I never said so.

“But I’m still hungry.” ~ It doesn’t matter, you can’t have another piece of pie.

“I’m angry with you.”  ~ That’s too bad, I do the best I can.

“That’s a terrible thing to do.” ~ That may be your opinion, still it doesn’t change anything. 

“The monkey escaped from the circus.” ~ Not my monkey, not my circus. 

Communication, dialogue in particular, is fraught with subtle cues that can be taken any number of ways. A raised eye brow, pursed lips, a sigh, a timely pause; they can all change the direction of what our words mean. Sometimes body language is enough to soften the hard edge on, ‘I don’t care.’ I've included 'IDC' back in my vocabulary. Under certain circumstances it’s exactly the right response. It may be about age or experience but I'm comfortable with it again. Propriety is still a good path to follow and callous, rude, condescending dismissal isn’t proper unless insult was the intent to begin with. 

“There is a problem.” ~ I know, but this one isn’t mine. It isn’t yours either. 

“No, we have a problem.” ~ If you think so, I hope it turns out.

“You don’t understand.” ~ I understand, I just don’t really care.

“You’ve got to care.” ~ No, I don’t care, not at all. I do not care.

You smile and buy your friend a cup of coffee, change the subject or explore why they think the way they do. It would occur to me that I might care under other circumstance; if it were my monkey, I might care. Outside the coffee shop, people leave their dogs tied to a tree or a table while they come inside to buy their latte. A Great Dane is busy licking the face of a baby in a stroller while the mother has her back turned, talking to a friend. I am entertained but should I care; I don’t think so. Not caring doesn’t have to be the rude indiscretion I once took it to be. I can only care about so many things at a time and if there isn’t enough room on my caring plate, then I don’t care. 

RITUAL

 

Nearly twenty years ago I had just returned to Michigan. Life had been a bumpy ride and things were smoothing out, looking up. I had fallen in with a group of writers, new friends and a reason to be writing. I penned a simple poem and used it in lieu of a Christmas card that year. I don’t know how many I sent out but since then it has become a custom if not a ritual; crafting a piece that I feel good about, updating an address book, choosing stationary and envelopes, printing, ink pad and stamps to add a personal touch, a personal greeting to go with the signature, addressing, stuffing, closing, postage stamps and finally a check list, inspection before dropping them in the chute at the post office. Yesterday I left about 85 {+ or -} envelopes with the postal service. Some folks will be traveling or unavailable and I send my best wishes via e-mail or FaceBook. Altogether I try to reach about 100 friends, near and far with the best I can offer. After all, it is the season for peace, and hope, and good will; and I want that to be my little light to shine. After twenty years I notice that my holiday mentality hasn’t changed. Here is that poem again, timely as ever, sincere as ever, hokey if you think it’s hokey but I’ll take that any time. 

Christmas Greeting:  1996

 .  .  .   colored lights border doorways and windows while the warm smell of food fills the house. Children anticipate first morning light and scurry off to bed.

 .  .  .   snow clings to pine branches and covers the mountain side.  An owl listens in the silence, and moonlight paints shadows on the night.

 .  .  .  Somewhere people remember the Christmas past, others hope and dream of times to come. And, some of us are content to live the moment, to treasure the company of loved ones, to bridge time and distance with our best wishes.

 .   .   .  Let the Holidays be a time of peace, and hope, and happiness. 

KINESTHETIC

I know: I talk about swimming all the time, but that’s how I start my day, six days a week. This morning there were two others in the water, I know them both, not by name but their styles. He is much like me, probably a decade younger and considerably heavier but he does freestyle, slow and predictable. We move at about the same rate but he stops between laps frequently and finishes before I do. Serina introduced herself to me; my age, average looking, another methodically slow freestyler. She only swims 15 or 20 minutes and leaves. Whatever else about them, I don’t know. The legacy they leave at the pool is not very wide, not very deep.

‘Legacy’ is either a tangible inheritance or what you leave behind of your nature or style that others remember. About the time your children begin to gray and their children get driver’s licenses, you begin to think about ‘Legacy.’ Although I live a comfortable life, I am not a man of means. My tangible worth will be meager. Certainly DNA is part of it; I carry genes and chromosomes that link my ancestors to my descendants. I am the conduit through which genes and chromosomes pass. When life is through with me they will still be out there, like butterflies going flower to flower. So, I wonder how I will be remembered. Presidents spend their first term doing controversial, polarized politicking. It makes for loyal supporters and strident opponents. In the last half of their second term, they do noble, endearing things with broad appeal. They want to be remembered in a good way. All of us will be remembered, one way or another, for a while anyway and it is comforting to believe it will be in a good light.

I think, for the most part anyway, that we act on our beliefs and that those beliefs will be the context of our ‘Legacy.’  I will be leaving a body of written work when I go and for anyone interested or willing to read through it, my nature and style will be quickly found out. But that’s for someone else to do. All I can do is share, on the page, what has been important and meaningful along the way. I’m not one for lists but I do keep track of quotes, ideas and principles that I fall back on when I need a reminder of what this life is all about. To begin with I’d lean on Carl Jung, 20th century psychologist-philosopher who noted; “There is no right or wrong, only what makes sense and what does not.” No question where I stand at the chasm between absolutism and relativism. Then I’d touch on ideas that have sustained. ‘Security is a myth and comfort is a shameless whore.’ I want to feel secure and I take comfort where I can just like everyone else but you need to understand. Will Durant, American historian & philosopher made the observation; “Civilization exists by geological consent, subject to change without notice.” It speaks to me of choosing reason and process over faith and tradition. Any collection of wise or otherwise, legacy bait need include Khalil Gibran. I would paraphrase; ‘Our children move through us, belong not to us; the fruit of life’s longing for itself.’ Our job as parents is to nurture and when the time comes, most certainly, you let go. So there isn’t any misunderstanding, the nurture part is lifelong and letting go does nothing to diminish being the parent.

I don’t know if I’ve advanced or enhanced my ‘Legacy’ potential but throwing out great quotes and embellishing great ideas comes easy. I’ll be back in the pool come dark-thirty and it’s about the only thing I do, repetitious and predictable that I look forward to. Nothing mysterious, I know exactly what it is, it’s about motion, the kinesthetic part of being. When I’m in motion, the mind goes to work at a level that is unavailable to the conscious part. I can think about other things but when the mind is ready, it lets me know what it has been up to. It’s like finding presents under the tree, any time of year. All I have to do is point myself down hill and burn some energy.

78

If you live long enough, you reach a point where the distance between, ‘Once upon a time. . .’ and the reality you meet in the moment is really, really far. I remember my childhood well enough and most of the stations in between but I’ve worn a lot of different hats and changed my style many times over that span. I suppose there is something to be said for being raised in a certain way and growing old, tried and true to that model but I can’t think of it now; probably not later either. My journey has been largely about discovery and change. The idea of getting it right the first time and, ‘Not fixing what ain’t broken. . .’ just eludes my sensibility. Where would we be without course corrections? Getting to the point, I have left so many things behind that were so important at the time in favor of curiosity and possibility that it’s hard to fit them into the same story. This is one of those stories. 

From as long as I can remember, all I ever wanted to do was play ball. There was no junior high or little league football in my time but the school was small and they checked leftover equipment out to 7th and 8th graders. The high school coach let us practice, take part in drills, hold dummies, even get run over in the mix when numbers were short. I suspect the coach took some comfort in seeing 30 bodies on the field instead of 20. As a 115 lb. freshman, my playing potential was nil but come Friday night my name was on the program. I was the last to get a game jersey. It was white with gold sleeve stripes and blue numbers. When I slipped it on over my shoulder pads it looked like I was standing under a tent with my head out a hole in the top. It was so big that the bottom part of my number, ’78’ was tucked in my pants and the sleeves came down past my finger tips. 

Time flies and the world changes; you change with it or get left behind. Over time I have outgrown or jettisoned that, ‘Play-Ball-win one for the Gipper’ affinity. I’m not even a good sports fan now, don’t watch games, don’t care much who wins. Other than the University of Michigan, I have no particular loyalties, and that is much more about academics and their graduate school than about sports hype. I was a player and then I was a coach, for a long time, but I let it go because it didn’t serve my needs anymore. There were new ideas and interests on my plate. 

Yesterday I went to Costco, the wholesale warehouse store to get some photos printed. The lady said it would be about an hour so I took a cart and started pushing it around the store. I didn’t have anything particular to shop for but marketing strategies work and consumers that we are, I couldn’t resist a jar of almond stuffed olives. So, on about my third lap around the store, with my olives rattling around an otherwise empty basket, I noticed two men standing, talking across their shopping carts. The one was unremarkable, about my size and profile. The other was a tall, black man, probably my age with short, gray hair and beard. Perfect fit on the blue sport jacket, open collar shirt and black pants. My eyesight is poor and faces blur until I get close but I couldn’t, not pay attention. I stepped closer and just waited. Shortly he  turned to me, body language inferring, “Yes?” 

I said, “You are Bobby Bell.” He smiled and said, “Yes, I am Bobby Bell.” I felt like a little kid, trying to say something that would be appropriate in a lofty conversation, beyond my simple frame of mind. I told him that I was at Wm Jewell College when the Chiefs had their summer camps there, that I used to lifeguard the pool when they swam after practice. He laughed, said he loved the pool, that many players didn’t use it because it was so cold but he loved the cold water after those hot practice sessions. I thanked him for all the great years with the Chiefs and wished him Happy Holidays. As I started reaching my hand toward him, his hand was already reaching for mine, returning the holiday greeting. BobbyBell, NFL Hall of Fame, his number 78 is retired at Arrowhead Stadium. He was as splendid a combination of speed, strength and savvy as ever played the game. His cart contained two 12 packs of bottled water and a 12 pack of toilet paper. He was shopping at Costco, just like me. I got my photos and drove home but couldn’t help thinking about playing football. In high school I finally grew up some and as a senior I played both offense and defense. We lost more than we won but I got to play and that was my aspiration, to play. Of course you want to win but when it’s over it’s over and you move on, win or lose. In college I was older, in my late 20’s. I didn’t get to play much but I did get to practice against our first team a lot. There is something about Saturday afternoons in the fall, breaking a sweat, it stirs something primitive; the pursuit, the rattle of pads, the collision and the smell of turf; I’d forgotten how much I loved it. Being on the sideline was my reward for giving the 1st team a good preparation on Wednesday and Thursday; and sometimes, I got in for a play on offense or a kickoff or punt coverage. That’s not my game anymore but what do you know, there will be times when, unexpectedly, you cycle back to the, Once upon a time. . . and you are reminded how that was the perfect time to be the guy you used to be. 

IN THE BEAUTY WOOD

           This is going to be disconnected at best but then I suppose, it just is what it is. I write primarily for myself and then, if it makes it to my blog and someone finds it worth the trouble, I think that’s alright too. Something drew me to Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood this morning and his theme sone; “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood; a neighborly way in the beauty wood, da-dum-da-dum, please, won’t you be my neighbor?” I remember Mr. Rogers but it wasn’t until 2006 at The National Storytelling Conference in Pittsburg, PA that I learned his story. If he was a National Treasure, Fred Rogers was even more precious to the people of Pittsburg, his home town. What was it about the mild mannered, almost painfully polite Mr. Rogers that was so endearing? No swagger, he was not the stereotype, manly man, not heroic in traditional terms; I think it was the obviously genuine concern for others that he modeled for children and for adults as well. We could use another Mr. Rogers.

Like a pinball ricocheting off flippers and bumpers; ding-ding-clink-clink and the game changes. It’s not about the wonder of a peaceful, patient man anymore. It’s about the news. I have to be reminded, frequently, that the world is becoming a more peaceful, more safe place. Compared to 300 years ago, and how about 1000 years ago; it’s a much safer, saner place.  Considering population density, the ease and speed with which violence can be done, not as dangerous now as then. Violence still happens; innocent people still suffer and die but in relative terms, the world is a safer place. 

Still, today’s news is all about random and/or systematic killing. In California yesterday, 14 killed, 17 wounded by shooters at a holiday party. Only a few days before that in Colorado, innocents shot, wounded and killed at a Planned Parenthood clinic. Unarmed black men are dying at the hands of white police officers at an alarming rate. Suicide bombers are exploding themselves all over the world. The killing just keeps on, keeping on, like beads on a string, one after another, after another until it becomes so common, so predictable that evil becomes the norm, like bugs on the windshield. Gun advocates argue that guns don’t kill, people kill. On the other hand, gun critics point out that murder by other means is practically nonexistent compared to gun violence. If the law allows anyone to sell a gun out of the trunk of their car to whoever has money; if it allows any drunk to carry a loaded weapon into a bar, something is wrong with the law. We are a nation with a deeply rooted gun culture. It’s neither good nor bad, it just is. But the notion that the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun, it not only sidesteps the issue but insults everyone’s intelligence. 

Somewhere I stumble across passive but no less negative push back against, ‘Political Correctness.’ The phrase, ‘PC’ has become a code word for privileged bigots who resent being held accountable for bad behavior. There was a time when this land was so White, so Christian, so Straight, we could indulge our prejudices indiscriminately, without consequences. By definition, politics is the way we make collective decisions about how we live together in community. Civility is the price we pay to live in community. All PC requires is, be civil. We’re not all that White, Christian or Straight anymore and indulging in language and behavior, meant to insult and intimidate is simply, politically, morally incorrect. Abusive behavior, no matter how veiled, is never correct. The world is changing for the better, but it’s coming around really, really slow, maybe not in my lifetime but 300 years ago; knowing what you know now, nobody would like living 300 years ago.  I heard it said, "Change comes slowly, one funeral at a time." I thought it was crude at the time but it is proving itself out. After all, women now have more rights than domestic animals in developing countries and here they can vote, something my grandmother couldn't do when my mother was a child. Women can borrow money now without a man's cosignatory, something my mother could not do when I was a kid. White-Male-Christian-Straight-Class privilege is going away. You may not like it, you can complain all you want without insulting, degrading or taunting anyone. If you can’t or won't then you could be one of the Bigots I mentioned earlier. Mutual respect is less about the destination and more about the source. In the end, the only rule is the Golden one. 

That brings me back to Mr. Rogers. On the surface he was a Geek, he took off his shoes when he came inside and folded his sweater before he put it down, a man who never had to raise his voice or his fist; all he did was be nice and be fair and it works. I’ve looked up to different heroes as I’ve grown up and old. Right now, Fred Rogers is right there with Nelson Mandela and Jimmy Carter. In a few days the news will focus on newly hatched violence with its roots in some narrow ideology or a convoluted sense of entitlement. I am terribly disappointed in the human animal but I now understand that I will never understand; maybe in another 300 years. I’ll try to be satisfied with something uplifting, model someone who got it right and left things better than what they found. I’ll start with Carter and Mandela: Fred Rogers will live next door.