This Happiest Night

God has given us so many beautiful things, scattered throughout our lives, that are yet nothing more than that - things. It is up to us to gather all these together and give them the meaning that can come only from a human; from a soul. A fire is, in itself, nothing more than the observable manifestation of the bonding of carbon and oxygen molecules; a cup of tea merely the dried leaves of camellia sinensis steeped in hot water; a book is a lump of methodically pressed and stained wood pulp. Gather these together in a man, though, and a miracle occurs. The simple things transcend their matter, to find meaning in the man. The whole becomes greater - so much greater - than its parts, as the soul places itself, lynchpin and cog, in the midst of a spiderweb of earthly things. The corporeal becomes spiritual, but so too, the spiritual must become corporeal, and both are better for the change. For, just as the things find meaning in the man, the man also finds fullness in the things. And so we gather all the accoutrements of winter around us which, alone, have no importance, but, taken into our hearts and souls, turn a cold and dead season into the happiest time of the year. Fire, tea, books, blankets, music, snow. What are these, by themselves? Things, and nothing else. But give them to a man, and he molds them into a grand and glorious piece of art. So enjoy your wintertide. I know I am.


This Happiest Night

We gather our feet by the fire's soft glow,
where the embers cast heat on the lingering snow
and the strains of the sweet music play soft and low,
on this chilliest time of the year.

A book in the hand and a blanket to keep
quiet watch on the land, where the flakes settle deep
and the cedar trees stand with their heads bowed in sleep,
while we, we have nothing to fear.

For trouble cannot enter into this hall,
when the hearthstones are hot and the flames ever tall,
and the kettle has caught up its whispering call
for us few, huddled restful and near.

So let us be light as the hours grow long
and we measure the night by the meter of song;
yes, within all is right, be the world so wrong,
on this happiest time of the year.

The Carolers' Prayer

After three wonderful nights of caroling, I have come to the realization that caroling is a lost art, but, even more so, is the art of greeting the carolers. I have lost track of how many times we were met, and then sent off, with a smile given more out of politeness and social necessity than actual happiness. And, while we won't be found performing at the Met any time soon, our singing was certainly far from bad. In fact, our harmonies were generally pretty spot on. The worst instance occurred when a husband and wife asked if we would leave so they could shut the door; they didn't want to let out any more heat. But, every once in a while, someone comes along who makes all the chill and damp and unfriendly houses worth it. Even if it happens only once in a night, it is sufficient. Usually, it's an older couple or a family, and they invariably offer not only hot drinks and cookies, but a place to sit and the sort of wonderfully pleasant conversation that one only gets between two complete strangers, who are yet connected by something far more foundational - far more important - than a low heating bill. God bless them; they make the season.

The Carolers' Prayer

A wind is falling through the trees,

so burdened by the snow,

as, with our lanterns lifted high,

a-caroling we go.

Our footprints track from door to door,

our herald-knock is bold,

and though our cheeks be rosy-red,

our hands and feet are cold.

Our song is one of ages past,

and yet is just as sweet,

for time cannot dilute the joy

it brings to those we greet.

And all we beg: do not forget

your duty at the door;

we seek a little joy, too;

we cannot ask for more.

So call us in to warm our toes;

we shan't stay long, no fear.

A cookie and a drink is all,

and we'll return next year.

Past Three O'Clock

I went caroling today, and it was absolutely wonderful. The wind was blowing, the snow was falling, and our toes were frozen, but the surprise and happiness on people's faces when they opened their doors to a burst of song made up for all of it. Of course, it also helped that there was a roaring fire and hot tea waiting for us when we were done. This poem is taken from 'Past Three O'Clock,' which began as a song for the London waits, or town watchmen, of the 1600's, and ended as a 19th century carol.


Past Three O'Clock

Past three o'clock, the campans ring
upon the frosty morning air;
past three o'clock, awake and sing;
the morrow's come and Christ is near.

Born is He, so innocent,
of God, and of a man,
and forth the seraphs' praises went
since ere the world began.

Past three o'clock, the campans ring
upon the frosty morning air;
past three o'clock, awake and sing;
the morrow's come and Christ is near.

All creation cries 'Nowell'
in one triumphant word,
so stay not, sirs, but rise and tell
the coming of the Lord!

Past three o'clock, the campans ring
upon the frosty morning air;
past three o'clock, awake and sing;
the morrow's come and Christ is near.

The Holly and the Ivy

I've been singing old Christmas traditionals with this dear soul for the past month or so, and it has opened up a world of wonderful carols that I never knew existed. So, to do my own little part in passing these on, I thought it fitting to write a series of poems, as we approach Christmastime, that pay keen and humble homage to their sadly fading memory. This first is taken from 'The Holly and the Ivy,' an English folk carol set down in the latter half of the 19th century.


The Holly and the Ivy

The holly and the ivy set
their roots upon the earth,
and of the two, the holly, true,
recounts the Savior's birth.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The holly bears a flower white
and stainless as the snow,
and Mary bore the Savior for
us sinners here below.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The holly bears a berry red
and ruddy as the sword,
and Mary bore the Savior for
to herald Heaven's word.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The holly bears a prickle sharp
and keen as winter chill,
and Mary bore the Savior for
to carry all our ill.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The holly bears a bark as bitter
as His agony,
and Mary bore the Savior for
to set us captives free.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The Thorn

All I have to say is, if you've never read anything by Monsignor Luigi Giussani, go out to your local bookstore or hop on Amazon and purchase 'Is It Possible to Live This Way?' You won't regret it. And then, look into the Communion and Liberation movement (don't worry - despite it's suggestive name, it has absolutely nothing to do with Communism or liberation theology). You'll be setting yourself up for the greatest journey of your life.


The Thorn

Set against the thorn, the thick
blood rolls as quick as ready water,
drop for drop, up from the prick,
the point married to the matter,

letting out the life in waves,
with every pulse upon the vein,
but pouring forth, in pouring saves,
and holds the moment by the pain.

For only through this loss is found
the compass turn of destiny,
that leads the soul, no longer bound,
desire of the blinded, free,

to fill the vessel, emptied out
of every darkness in the glass.
The life that was a life without
has found a final life at last.