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.