It seems like an unusual Christmas this year, as we take stock and look ahead and behind.
The spectre of covid has loomed over the planet throughout, touching hearts, troubling minds, and taking lives.
I think we know now that we are going to beat this thing, in spite of the anguish and the anger, the relentless statistics, and all of the news and all of the views, both reality-based and fake-laced. Much of the darkness will be washed away by the new light to come. What will remain, uncomfortably, is the knowledge that such a thing can be, and that sometime or other the challenges will come, and will be greater and deadlier again. As happens in this stormy sea of time we sail within.
Dickens nailed it with Christmas. Scrooge experiences the confluence of ghosts of past, present and future, and finds it extremely troubling. Dickens lived well before Einstein, but seemed to be preparing the way for the concept of time as part of a larger fabric of reality. Past, present, and future, are all here, there and everywhere, for you, me and I. All the time.
Ha, Charlie and Al are a tough act to follow. A lot of we écrivains are going to struggle in vain to redo and redo again our tales of Christmas and of time.
I am alone this Christmas Eve, many miles from home, and a half a planet away from my dearest love. It is so still and tranquil, and a little sad, but there is plenty to be grateful for and to look forward to. Past, present, and future are here with me this night. All the laughter and tears, the pleasure and pain, and the moments and the madness co-exist as always. Every single instant seems like an instance of time travel, and I bathe in it, I suffer in it, and I rejoice in it. It is the quintessence of essence, and the very stuff of dreams. It’s life itself, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. Would you?
Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night.