Wednesday, December 26, 2012
To my ever dear, and dearest friends; and constant, kind,
and loyal readers,
I
This was to be my considered assessment of, ' Christmas: the
day after ', as I think it a most profound assay of our long-hoped-for dreams
and expectations leading to a single week of often stark reality, wherein all
imagined thoughts ( some yearlong in making ), were to be answered in just two
days.
It is not New Year's yet; there remains--still--a slight,
but real hurry to attend to all that was the year just passed, (and of shaking
it from us like the briefest dusting of snow that clings to coats, upon one’s
return to the warmth of home ), and--ancient, and pagan revelry made
modern--turn thoughts to a looking forward, of sorts, to seek perhaps a kinder,
and more prosperous time; the continued safety of true friends, and loved ones;
of wishing, somehow, that we be will be different Selves, and--of course--a
most legitimate desire to feel better and—somehow—to be in less pain.
II
It is, of course, too early to even think of 'resolutions',
especially if, today, we are at least moderately happy, still well-fed, and in,
thank God, some lessened pain.
Perhaps is not the day to even think of things, but rather,
let the mind relax in thinking dire thoughts; too early, then, to give thanks
for just surviving the soon-ending year still yet before us.
III
And so...I shall not over burden you with 'shoulds', and
'woulds', and 'coulds', for there is plenty of time for that later; I would not,
for all my heart, presume to divest you of your delights and joys; of
much-loved children playing with their toys. And, of tired, and quiet adults (
many still in sleepwear) sitting at your table drinking coffee, in an
exhausted, but somehow satisfied mood, discussing plans of going home, and
sharing muted expectations for the coming year.
IV
I would not try to take that from you, as it is Life, such
as we are allowed to know it. The house may be a wreck, with dishes--maybe--in
the sink; still burning bright your tree, and with its dwindling power to
suspend a plain and--yes, painful--contemplation of the year before.
V
Today is NOT the day to think of pain; of too much debt, and
bills yet to be paid; I beg you, stay a while in lambent dreams, tired as they
may be: for, for a too-brief while, you knew a happiness, and if you but only
now consider it, an ember of that love remains.
VI
Should you have hosted visitors, and counted grandchildren
among them, their laughing innocence proudly represents your legacy to an
uncertain world; too soon they must--as all adults must be--' responsible ', so
let them full enjoy their childhood, as, in doing so, you will make sweet
memories that, in later years, will sustain you both, for it is then, that they
are most needed.
VII
Along the 'bell curve' spectrum of circumstance, and necessity,
and custom, there will be those for whom the 26th represents a ' Christmas
cleansing '; by now, provided that they even ' put' up trees, have stripped
them of their gaudy splendor: for who--indeed--wants to have to vacuum dead
needles in the carpet. Many have to
return to work, and so, all the lights come down, are boxed, and put away. The
presents (what there was of them ), have
been ' installed' ( as they usually are the ' practical kind ' ), where they
shall remain, and, all the scraps of littered, pretty paper have long-since
been picked up, and along with the boxes that the gifts came in, are relegated,
without a second's glance, out to the trash. And by tomorrow--at the very
latest--any furniture that was temporarily moved has been returned to where
they have been for years. And Christmas has been surgically and efficiently
removed, until no trace of it remains whatsoever.
VIII
Then there are those--perhaps, much like myself--for whom
this Christmas was but a twin to last year: quiet, singularly without moment (
except what I could 'make' myself feel ), spend at home, alone with dog; in
many ways, I knew it must--somehow--be special, different, yet, it was not
really; just another weekend passed.
No visitors, no passing children singing carols; not when,
the children that DO live around, take inventory as the pass; and often, what
they cannot steal, they imply break...or...set of fire ( its true ). No
neighbors came to call, no thoughtful plates of food were brought; I
understand, as early off they drove, that they have filial concerns of their
own, and I no longer figure into that holiday equation.
Oh, yes, two friends called me on the telephone: so briefly
were their wishes, that I could not help but gather that their cell phone plans
charged them an hundred dollars-a-Christmas-minute; it was more like a duty,
that when dispatched, is done.
I was truly grateful, and humbled to receive such
wonderfully thoughtful gifts from two of my dearest friends at MDJunction, gifts
from two, loving, life-long friends, and…several gifts through the auspices of,
“The Volunteer Way”; presents quite
undeserved, but so welcome nonetheless, for—to me--there was the true
representation of all my magic Christmases past.
IX
And then, and this truly rends my heart, are those who pain,
and loneliness, and despair was--by Christmas--made an unbearable mockery.
Those whose family dysfunctions almost make as breathless the credulity; those
who validly disturbed the Christ-child's sleep; those constantly a roil in anguish, depression
and despair; too often steeped in poverty, wanting for a lack of love, or show
of kindness or affection anywhere.
How very lost, are these lost souls.
For they have nothing, yet--in their intractable
misery--still reach out for some, slight hope, despite all the laughing
promises that are made, but never kept; it is--for them--the gentle and remorse-filled
angels wept. As should we all.
X
I thought myself unable to write to you today; for my 26th
began in the middle of the night with pain, such pain, that I--again out in the
kitchen--put my head down on my arms, and tried to find some wanted sleep. My
dreams came as vollies of the unexplainable and diffident nightmares; I awoke
not once, but numerous times, and somehow sad, and not a little lost.
For those of you who understand what happens when a
'Lupus/Fibro/Chronic Pain and Chronic Fatigue flares, it becomes a supernova of unutterable pain
everywhere.
The pain pills hardly
touch it, neither is much-relieved the mind-fog, and a listlessness, and a migraine
so severe; I am hungry, but too nauseated to even think of food, and find—although
I never do so—think that I should rather stay the day in bed.
Perhaps you well know the irony of sitting at the computer,
writing this to you, my dearest friends, while I am all-over in chills.
Would that all my errant clocks pick a kinder time and there
stand still—between that space between drawn breaths--perhaps, one between
seconds wherein the opiate has worked, in brushing pain and daily worries away
to some darkened, cobwebbed corner.
XI
But I find I can still pray for you, my dear, dear freinds,
in wishing you 'no pain', or much lessened pain; I can still be very proud of
you for every little gain you make: in stepping from an Agoraphobic's home, to
venture out into the world; I can still be thankful when your pains are low, or
when there is some clarity of mind-fog; or when--by sheer determination--manage
to let go of fears, and turn your backs upon an unspeakable past.
I laud those, whose pain--while different from mine, though
just as great, or even greater--refuse to be dragged down by it; I laud your
more noble souls.
And...on this December 26th, I would speak to you of my
gratitude and thanks for your unwavering concern, caring, and support.
YOU are the greatest gift that I could ever hope to receive!
Please know that I think of you so very often, and that I
love you dearly !
'Zahc'/Charles
