Christmas: the dichotomy

      From my childhood, I have especially fond memories of Christmas, for as a small boy it appealed to my imagination in a way that no other cause for a celebration could. And perhaps, the fact that Christmas came in the depths of winter, and that much of the excitement came after dark, that was an added bonus. And the caveat, (for that's what it was): "from my childhood", was intended to alert you to the fact, that in adult life, I have, at times, been troubled by what this season of the year tells us about ourselves: about our predictability, and, dare I say it, (and children excluded), mindlessness.

   From an adult point of view, and as if by the flick of a switch, we are in the run-up to Christmas, and in terms of music, entertainment, shopping, and parties, and office parties, it is entirely predictable. Then, and as if by another flick of that same switch, it is New Year: time to party, in Sydney, Shanghai, London, and New York and wherever, to be blaze, and obsessed with shopping, and hide from others, our innermost thoughts, what we know to be true: that this New Year, in all likelihood, will not be that much different from the old. There will be wars and rumours of war; and the hungry and destitute will still struggle to eek out an existence; and while people will fall in love, hearts will be broken by personal tragedies of every conceivable kind, and much of the good that so many people did last year, will be done, quietly, again this year, and pass unnoticed, as we go in pursuit of the sensational and superficial.

      Well apologies if I have got you depressed; for that was not my intention: I am simply getting myself of my chest, by sharing a few dark secrets with you, before getting around to the matter in hand, which is to share with you, a truth, that the innocence and simplicity of the birth of Christ in a stable at Bethlehem, has always stood in marked contrast to the reality of life as we know it.

      Then, it was the Roman occupation of Israel, and an edict from Caesar Augustus. Wanting to count the number of people under his thumb, he inconvenienced everyone, by requiring that heads of households return to their ancestral home, to be registered in a census. On the roads it was chaos, which was why, Mary and Joseph, arriving late from Nazareth, found themselves homeless, and desperately in need of somewhere to stay, and why, in the end, they had to make do with a stable.

      Now in the context of the dichotomy that is Christmas, it is worth reminding ourselves of one of the most improbable of edicts. It came about in England, when Oliver Cromwell, as Lord Protector, or Head of State, presided over a puritan parliament, and religious fervour was at its height. It was the edict, that made unlawful, the celebration of Christmas; and that despite the fact, that it had nothing to do with shopping, but with the celebration of a heavenly proclamation, of, "news of great joy, a joy to be shared by the whole people", that "today, in the town of David, [Bethlehem] a saviour has been born to you, he is Christ the Lord."

   Well, when I read the extract, quoted below, from John Evelyn's Diary. (the year 1657), at a certain point I laughed, but of course, at the time, it was no laughing matter, for besides illustrating again the dichotomy between the simplicity of the story of the birth of Christ, and life as we know it; John Evelyn's experience, is a reminder, of how impenetrable, and dangerous, is the mind of the zealot. The square brackets are mine:

"I went with my Wife &c: to Lond[on]: to celebrate Christmas day. Mr Gunning preaching in Exesceter Chapell on 7. Micha 2. Sermon Ended, as he was giving us the holy Sacrament, The Chapell was surrounded with Soldiers: All the Communicants and Assembly supriz'd & and kept Prisoners by them, some in the house, where yet were permitted to Dine with the master of it, the Countesse of Dorset, Lady Hatton &c: some others of quality who invited me: In the afternoon came Colonel Whalley, Goffe & others from Whitehall to examine us one by one, & some they committed to the Martial, some to Prison, some Committed: When I came before them they tooke my name and aboad, examined me, why contrarie to an Ordinance made that none should any longer observe the superstitious time of the Nativity (so esteem'd by them) I darest offend, & particularly be at Common prayers, which they told me was but the Masse in English, & particularly pray for Charles stuard, [the king] for which we had no scripture: I told them we did not pray for Charles Steward but for all Christian Kings, Princes and Governors: They replied, in so doing we praied for the K[ing]. of Spaine too, who was their enemie, & a Papist, with other frivolous & insnaring questions, with much threatning, & finding no colour to detaine me longer, with much pity of my Ignorance, they dismiss'd me. These men were of high flight, and above Ordinances [above the law] & spoke spiteful things of our B[lessed]. Lord nativity."

      Now while Caesar Augustus, in issuing his decree, was unwittingly bringing about the fulfillment of prophecy, in respect of the extraordinary event that would happen in the obscure town of Bethlehem, someone, who spent a lot of time on the road, by choice, was the Welsh poet, writer and tramp, William Henry Davies. He wrote a book about it: "The Autobiography of a Super Tramp", and a sequel, "Latter Days". And despite what I am going to tell you about him, he ended up respectable: with a young wife and a dog. We are told that he did much of his tramping in America, and that his experiences were richly coloured by "bullies,  tricksters, and fellow-adventurers", and "that he was thrown in to prison in Michigan, beaten up in New Orleans, witnessed a lynching in Tennessee, and got drunk pretty well everywhere." Well, among his poems, is one that many, in this part of the world, would have learned at school, and that the shepherds in Bethlehem, would have readily understood, for it has a lot to do with the true spirit of Christmas, though Christmas doesn't get a mention:

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care
We have no time to stop and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich the smile her eyes began.

A poor life this, if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
__________

And he too, mindful of the dichotomy that is Christmas, wrote this:

The holly on the wall 

Play, little children, one and all,
For holly, holly on the wall.
You do not know that millions are
This moment in a deadly war;
Millions of men whose Christmas bells
Are guns' reports and bursting shells;
Whose holly berries, made of lead,
Take human blood to stain them red;
Whose leaves are swords, and bayonets too,
To pierce their fellow-mortals through.
For now the war is here, and men -
Like cats that stretch their bodies when
The light has gone and darkness comes -
Have armed and left their peaceful homes:
But men will be, when there's no war,
As gentle as you children are.
Play, little children, one and all,
For holly, holly on the wall.    
__________

    Now this dichotomy between the ideal and the real, was often a part of my own childhood Christmas, but there was always that undercurrent of excitement, which was sufficient of itself, to keep me believing in the wonder of it all. But that said, there was no escaping the uncertainty: Would my father be drunk or sober? and if drunk, how drunk? : reduced to silence, or roused to a destructive rage? And would my mother's, lesser anxiety, be eased: would Grandma remember to send a goose or a turkey. But when it came to Mass at midnight, the world was transformed. The church was packed, as though the parish had doubled in size, and the broad window-ledges were strewn with holly. And among the faithful, were those few, who, obviously "the worse for wear", had managed, somehow, to make it, to be there along with the rest of us: to be reminded of Mary and Joseph's arduous journey to Bethlehem, and to be reassured, and strengthened in their belief, that, that "good news of great joy!" was for them.
__________
© Cormac McCloskey

The story of the Nativity. Gospel of Luke. 2
The fulfillment of prophecy in respect of Bethlehem as the birthplace of the Messiah:
    The Bible: Old Testament:, Micah 5:1-2 Recalled in the Gospel of Matthew 2:1-6
The Diary of John Evelyn, and The Holly on the Wall, by William. H. Davies:
from  The English Christmas
          Published by  The Folio Society 2002
          The square brackets were inserted into the text by me
"Charles stuard" / "Charles Stewart" : [Stuart] One and the same, King Charles I, who, in 1649, was beheaded by the puritans during the second English Civil War.
Leisure, by William H. Davies
from Common Joys and other poems
"the worse for wear" : intoxicated, or obviously adversely affected by too much alcohol.

"to exist on earth is beyond any power to name."

 
   At the poetry meeting that I attend once a month, we have had some brief but interesting discussions about the merits of poetry in translation: as to whether or not two people can write a poem. But for me it has never been an issue of any consequence, for not having the option to read poems in languages other than English, the yardstick by which I judge the quality of what I am reading, is in its effect: as to whether or not I feel enriched by the experience. So it is thanks to Robert Fagle's translations from the Greek, that I am able to enjoy Homer's epic poems, The Iliad, and Odyssey. And to James McGowan, whose translations from the French, allow me to enter the Parisian, and in some respects seedy world, of Charles Baudelaire  And James E Falen, whose translation from the Russian, has allowed me to enjoy Alexander Pushkin's novel, Eugene Onegin. Written in verse, and set in imperial Russia, it draws the reader into a web of complex personal and political relationships, and intrigue. But if reading poetry in translation, (or novels, for that matter,) has to be second best, someone who helps to redress the balance, is the Polish poet and Nobel prizewinner, Czeslaw Milosz.

Now as a general rule, I don't pay too much attention to what a dust cover has to say, but in the case of Czeslaw Milosz, (and having read all his work,) I am happy to make an exception, so here it is:

"One of the greatest poets of the twentieth century. Czeslaw Milosz defined the tragedy and beauty of his age with an unrivaled elegance and precision. Whether describing his early youth in Poland, the anguish of war-torn Warsaw, or his personal search for religious meaning, his poetry brilliantly evokes the wonder, amazement and sensuous detail of living, and the particular individuality of every life. Compelling explorations of mortality, war, love and faith, these unique poems are at once unsettling and deeply inspiring: a passionate confirmation that "to exist on earth is beyond any power to name.""

This appraisal is taken from a publication of his work by Penguin Classics, the title for which, in contrast to the above, is drab in comparison: "New and Collected Poems 1931-2001 " But what really matters in the context of this blog is, that these poems were translated from Polish into English, by the man himself,. and that surely has to be as close as you can get to the original, when reading in translation.

Now for our last meeting the theme was "a journey", so I brought along one of his poems and introduced it as representing, life's journey.

POET AT SEVENTY

Thus, brother theologian, here you are,
Connoisseur of heavens and abysses,
Year after year perfecting your art,
Choosing bookish wisdom for your mistress,
Only to discover you wander in the dark.

Ai, humiliated to the bone
By tricks that crafty reason plays,
You searched for peace in human homes
But they, like sailboats, glide away,
Their goal and port, alas, unknown.

You sit in taverns drinking wine,
Pleased by the hubbub and the din,
Voices grow loud and then decline
As if played out by a machine
And you accept your quarrantine.

On this sad earth no time to grieve,
Love potions every spring are brewing,
Your heart, in magic, finds relief,
Though Lenten dirges cut your cooing.
And thus you learn how to forgive.

Veracious, frivolous, and dazed
As if your time were without end
You run around and loudly praise
Theatrum where the flesh pretends
To win the game of nights and days.

In plumes and scales to fly and crawl,
Put on mascara, fluffy dresses,
Attempt to play like beasts and fowl,
Forgetting interstellar spaces:
Try, my philosopher, this world.

And all your wisdom came to nothing
Though many years you worked and strived
With only one reward and trophy:
Your happiness to be alive
And sorrow that your life is closing.
__________

Now without going in too too much analysis, this poem is remarkable in its conclusion: in his happiness at being alive, and his "sorrow" at the prospect of death, and that despite the fact that life was a paradox: a myriad of experiences that besides being contradictory, often provef illusory  But however "dark" or "sad" life was, (a life lived in the teeth of the Nazi occupation of Poland,) or certain he was, that all his "wisdom" had "come to nothing", the word that puts the poem in a true perspective is, "sorrow". Why? Because implicit in "sorrow" is the idea of goodness.

Well at seventy-three I too have been looking back, and musing on how, despite all expectations, I have defied the odds: the teenage premonition that I would die young. But unlike Saint Paul, who had an altogether more profound experience on the road to Damascus, and who was told where to go and what to do, I found myself alone and grappling with the question, What is young? And such were the subtleties of the teenage mind, that my premonition came with its own fell-safe mechanism. Though it seemed most likely that I would die in my thirties, there was an outside chance, that I would just scrape past the half-century. ..

Now in light-hearted moments my mother had a saying, "when the head's gone, all's gone," and calling it to mind allows me to tell you, that as things stand, my head is in very good order, as are my limbs, (no aches, pains or weaknesses in the extremities,) as is my appetite. For apart from the porridge, bread and honey, and pot of tea that I put in front of myself each morning, there is never anything of what Jenny provides, that gets wasted. And all the anatomical unmentionable bits of me, are in good order also, and I sleep well. But for all that, I am now on the cusp, and. as they would say, "physically and psychologically challenged", for what has changed is, that I can no longer take my daily walks for granted. And for someone like me, who all his life has been physically active, if this is to last, it will be a sea change.

So what has changed.

Well to begin with, I have never had a heart attack, nor could my local doctor, either this year, or last, find evidence of anything wrong with my heart or lungs. But as last year, I was complaining of tightness in the chest and difficulty in breathing, I was referred back to cardiology for an angiogram. On that visit they confirmed that the stent, (a small tube) that was inserted into an artery in 2006,) was clear and working well. But on the basis that they had detected a "pinched artery" in the heart, that might be the cause of my problems, I was referred for what is known as an Adenosine stress MRI scan. This scan involves a medically induced stress test, (a test that allows them to study the heart working under pressure.) But here too, as with my local doctor, the end result was the same, they found nothing to be concerned about.

Now if we link these medical details, (and in particular the result of the stress test,) to the description of my general health, the signs, so far, are all positive. But of course, what remains unexplained is, why if the results are positive, am I struggling with angina. As for the "pinched artery", that is not unknown, and many people who have the condition, pass through life unaffected by it.

And there is this final perplexing detail.

When the "pinched artery" was identified I was prescribed 30mg of a slow release nitrate, that has the effect of relaxing the artery so as to improve the the flow of blood around the heart. Now when I saw my doctor recently, and he was deciding what to do, I was happy to agree to his suggestion that, "we try simple things first", which was to increase the nitrate from 30 to 60mg. Well the long and the short of it is, that despite that, and the fact that I have added to this, the occasional use of a liquid nitrate spray before going walking, the symptoms persist. So I am headed back to cardiology at the end of July, and wondering why no one has had this conversation with me:

"Mr McCloskey, you are 73, and these things happen, and I am afraid that the test results tell us that your heart is only 85 per cent efficient."

To which, by way of reassurance, they might have added:

"But for you, the good news is, that we have patients your age, and younger, whose hearts are 65 per cent, and less, efficient."

Now it was this absence of an explanation in the face of medical investigation and intervention, that left me feeling depressed; to which I might add, that I was neither physically or psychologically ready to have my wings clipped, never mind die, and that despite the fact that I have a significant spiritual life:of prayer and surrender to God.

But the good news is, that the depression didn't last long, and here's why

When I set about studying a diagram of the heart, so as to understand better how it is structured and how it works, it was only a matter of moments, and against all expectations, before I had lost all sense of self, and instead, was lost in the contemplation of something extraordinary, beautiful, and riven with intelligence. It was the sort of response that I had in my youth, when I looked into the night sky, or tried, as best I could, to comprehend existence, and the every-day cycle of life. Long before I had heard of Aristotle, I found God, self-evidently manifest in creation. And for the first time ever, as I considered this diagram of the heart: its structure, purpose, and precision, I found in it, a new universe, with that same beauty and manifest intelligence, so that I understood, as never before, how it is possible for scientists, (as distinct from those of us who are preoccupied with the arts,) to find beauty, in all its fullness, in their work.     .

__________
© Cormac McCloskey

Czeslaw Milosz
New and Collected Poems 1931-2001
Penguin Modern Classics
ISBN [none given]

"to exist on earth is beyond any power to name"
                                                Czeslaw Milosz