Wisdom Tree

Christmas 2009

December 23, 2009

 

Hardly anyone is here today;

just empty cubicles and dark offices.

The few of us remaining finish up in

the quiet, ready our desks for the new year.

We’re happy for the holiday, can go home

now and be merry, except for this:

a young colleague gave birth last night,

but things went wrong, the tiny son rushed

to another hospital; she hasn’t even seen him.

They will send updates through office e-mail.

We shut down early, this last day,

tell one another Merry Christmas and

leave into the cold and quiet afternoon.

 

December 24, 2009

 

As usual, this penultimate day has become bloated with preparation,

unfinished tasks, anxiety over money, and the build-up

of serial disappointments. How ironic, how fitting,

that the days leading up to God’s arrival prove with sharp intensity

how life simply is not enough—of anything—that our trying is

exceeded only by its ineffectiveness, that our desires succeed mainly

in carving out a greater emptiness. You might say that we dress up

and fashion a grand parade, which leaves us marching in place

while across a dark gorge the lights twinkle and the most

astounding music whispers over the distance.

Yet we are here, toes on the crumbling edge.

 

December 25, 2009

 

I woke up this morning when twinges in one side needled me to consciousness. My legs were trapped between two dogs and a cat, all nuzzling close and sound asleep. I noticed, too, the ominous headache. On this Christmas morning I tended all the pets, brought in the paper, then took a hot bath, hoping to woo knotted muscles. At least there was no hurry, no to-do list. The morning proceeded and, yes, I made him the apple pancake, which turned out perfectly. We opened gifts; it wasn’t terribly cold; the tree shone.

 

But I have to say, on this Christmas morning I wept. When you get to be a certain age, every holiday is bittersweet. Today I lay upon a heating pad, gazed at the lighted tree through a medicated haze, and missed my dad, my grandparents, and the warm years of habit that, due to generations changing, must halt and switch. We stop, too, to remember, regain our bearings, and concentrate on new loves. We play and play the music, allowing it to touch the tender grooves of memory. We lavish today’s children with gifts, the way they were lavished upon us. New babies help us embrace the holiday and make it possible not to mourn too deeply the people we miss. Yet it hurt me to think of how Dad and the grandmas would enjoy these babies, the ones they never laid eyes on. See, there is something fundamentally wrong with this.

 

In a way, celebration of any kind is rebellion against our losses and fears. No matter that the aunt is battling breast cancer; she’ll bring her famous cranberry salad. The brother may be out of work, but he will arrive with wife and our nieces and nephews, accept our gifts even though no one expects gifts from them. We buried Grandmother a month ago, but she would have a fit if we neglected to put up a Christmas tree just because of that.

 

Yes, we practice faith this way. It is no small thing that in the church’s liturgy we are instructed to lift up our hearts, and we answer that we lift our hearts to the Lord. We look upward, think forward, and continue to celebrate the stories that do not change, ever.

 

This is why, even with aching head and a low bank balance, I loved Christmas Day. And will always love it.   

 

Advent #20-23

December 18, 2009

 

I watched skaters in Millennium Park,

bought a shirt for my brother-in-law,

and tried the new Indian diner on south State Street.

Also, the German market in Daley Plaza—

booths of glass ornaments, warm pretzels,

my annual cup of spiced wine.

The snow came light and slanted,

and the ice rink rang with joy;

people nearing their time off, buying pretty things,

spending a day in the city. They feel the energy

of looking forward to a single day, one day

when entire societies have permission to be grateful,

expectant,  pleased to belong on this whirling earth.

--VH Wright, © 2009

 

December 19, 2009

 

Today I missed hope entirely;

it waited for the prayer that never came.

They waited together out in the slushy street

while I cleaned out a closet and struggled

to make my hair flip in the right direction.

Hope asks for very little—a window cracked open.

But no such entries exist in an exasperated life.

And a person can ignore, almost indefinitely,

the fiery line of mountains, the heron gliding past,

the streets alive with dancers and preachers,

the rain glittering wonder and good news.

--VH Wright, © 2009

 

December 20, 2009

 

In five days I will share breakfast with my husband.

In honor of Christmas I’ll bake him an apple pancake.

Perhaps we’ll have some music while we dine.

We won’t say much, just the two of us,

but the room will grow damp with memories.

Briefly we will become ourselves every year

before this and after this. We will feel the impact

of a thousand gifts received and given,

will vibrate the pain of botched visits

and disappointing reunions. We will know

transcendence, the power of history,

the persistent truth that, every year,

we rediscover the reason for dreams and visions

and perceive with fresh pangs the necessity of faith.

--VH Wright, © 2009

 

December 21, 2009

 

How many sweets can a person eat,

really, before taste freezes on the tongue

and drowsiness settles in for the season

and the ancient part of the heart begs

for lifting up, for the grand feast of eternal lights?

--VH Wright, © 2009

 

December 22, 2009

 

The cardinal showed up today, chirping

around the suet like the rock star he knows he is.

Just when I think he’s gone elsewhere, to a

human more dedicated to his habit

of sunflower seeds, the blot of red appears

in my peripheral vision. He two-steps on

the branch and chants the glories of his life,

knowing as he does, how I wait and wait

for every glimpse of his coming.

--VH Wright, © 2009

 

Advent #17-19

December 15, 2009

 

If every person in the world turned to the one on her left

and asked, “What would you walk across continents for?

What would compel you to sell off everything you had,

just to have it?” There would be stuttering and blushing,

made-up answers, then people would walk away angry

but not knowing why.

 

We have conformed, with amazing accuracy,

to a sort of contentment, and have learned

to speak without moving our lips. We’ve acquired

the skill of devotion without love—love always

tears something open; it batters and wounds.

You might say the world was a devoted place

before the Baby, before Kingdom Come.

Then the Baby grew up and began asking people

right and left: What would compel you to sell off

everything you had, just to have it?

—VH Wright, copyright © 2009

 

December 16, 2009

 

They were on their way to go stand in line

at a government office, to fill out forms

and pay taxes. She was probably relieved

to get out of town and away from the rumor mill.

And—let’s be honest—he may have been ambivalent.

 

Many hours into the trip, she knew the labor had begun.

She wanted to stop then and there,

cast a blanket in a secluded spot and be done with it.

He didn’t think it would be safe, not on this road,

with so many people moving around.

It was the first time she got really angry with him.

 

And he thought they could stay at his cousin’s

but who knew the place would be full of other relatives?

He saw how stung she looked at their inhospitality,

he knew she thought of her mother and aunts,

and the midwife who would not be there.

 

The woman who did help was a stranger and reeked of onions.

Just outside an argument erupted over a game of dice,

men’s thick voices crowding the night air. Then more

disturbance when goat herders walked into camp, filthy

and stinking and babbling about angels. What a racket,

their pounding on doors, eliciting curses.

But they found the child and grew peaceful.

Suddenly they seemed wise and good, and no one

could mistake their awe or miss how they wept—

those grown, impoverished men trembling ecstasy.

 

To be truthful, the parents were so weary

they did not think much about any of it then.

After months and years had rolled on by

they remembered the graces of that night

and were amazed.

—VH Wright, copyright © 2009

 

December 17, 2009

 

People who traveled the road often were first to notice:

the night sky had become more luminous.

Halting, they identified the strange star.

Jabbing fingers upward, voices tight with unknowing,

they murmured debates of what this visitation might mean.

But nothing had changed; the road was still the road.

Their lives passed by beneath their feet,

moving forever in the same direction, only now,

across their bent necks, a band of warmth,

a deep hum that would not leave.

—VH Wright, copyright © 2009

 

Advent #14-16

(December 12)

Hope #1

 

We’ve had hope before,

in a God who, erupting from a volcano,

promised to love and protect us.

This god could make anything happen,

back in the day. Only the old folks remember

those stories, and only children sing the songs.

 

The rest of us pay our taxes and lay low.

 

If you really want to help us, Lord,

quit with the outlandish tales. Understand,

for a change, where we really live.

We don’t care about arks full of animals;

how about the crops we forfeit year after year?

As for conquered lands and kingdoms—

we just want our kids to make it home

safe and sound.

—VH Wright, © 2009

 

 

(December 13)

Hope #2

 

Yes, we’ve had hope before,

in a God who split the sea in two

and then threatened to leave us stranded.

You will always have the upper hand,

and we—we must tend our bitter hearts

because they have hoped too much or too soon.

They have hoped for the wrong reason

or trusted the wrong messenger.

Please do not see, in our hopelessness,

a lack of faith. It is more like exhaustion.

—VH Wright, © 2009

 

 

(December 14)

Hope #3

 

A good hope forms over time—it has to, because sometimes

there are dreams, which don’t make sense right away.

And other times a hope looks like something else

until you peel away some layers and take walks with it.

Hope shrivels under the enhancement of advertizing campaigns,

and when you do manage to get a clear picture in your mind—

of a great leader, for instance, who will eliminate

your enemies one by one, and then give you a new car—

here comes another thing entirely, and it’s better than ever

but you’ve spent so much hope already, and, besides,

you’ve begun to desire the easier life, and the smoother ride.

—VH Wright, © 2009

Advent #11-13

Catching up! So small entries in threes for a day or two.

(December 9)

John the Baptist’s Father

 

So what did you think it was, Zechariah,

standing beside the altar?

Old fears and sins finally circling back?

A demon from out of town, tired of his quiet desert?

After so many years, was it surprising that the holy sacrifice

might really mean something, that the smoke could slip up

between heaven’s massive curtains and tickle God’s nose,

reminding him of all those prayers and people waiting?

 

Did you even count on that? An answer, I mean.

God’s gaze resting just then upon your shuddering frame,

words hitting the air to explode all over you?

Or maybe I should ask,

What did you expect from your God?

Or did you?

—VH Wright, © 2009

 

(December 10)

Mary’s Mom

 

I’d like to know if you noticed anything different

about your daughter. On a particular day, did she seem pale

or out of breath? Was she weepy? Did you have to tell her things twice?

When the truth came out, did you agonize about why

she hadn’t confided in you? Did you tell her father, or did she?  

And—be honest, now—when you, being the mother, being a woman—

understood the situation, didn’t you enjoy some moments

of sheer satisfaction? Didn’t you say to God, one eyebrow arched,

“You couldn’t have picked a better one”?

—VH Wright, © 2009

 

(December 11)

Gabriel

 

How much shrinking did you have to do

to get into the house?

How much shine had to be rubbed off

before she could see you?

Did you carry the plan like a secret fire in the heart,

knowing that such information could cause

a whole new rebellion up there?

And when the girl said yes, how much

did you ache to grow legs and lungs and

a head of hair, just to know the sensation

of your spirit breaking open?

—VH Wright, © 2009

Advent Day #10

I know--I'm behind by two days! Will make up for it I promise.

December 8, 2009

 

The cold is a hateful hand

scraping over skin to grip bone against bone,

and the soul is bruised, for lack of softness,

for want of a warming light.

Some days it seems the world is anger

and not forgiveness, that the day

has already slid into a bleakness and sorrow.

 

There must be a hearth, with flame and love.

There must be a day beyond this one,

when the divine speaks upon a bright spring cloud

and a little boy with bare arms

happily learns the shaping of wood,

the telling of stories.

—VH Wright, © 2009

Advent Day #9

December 7, 2009

 

Just before snow covers,

it reveals. In the gloom and gray

appear the bright veins of stone

and rippled bark, the sharp character

of shingles, beams, street signs, forgotten

toys and paper bags. It’s as if the interior

of everything has grown outward,

adorning itself in fine lace.

 

I like to think that, before the great angel

pronounced and the Holy Spirit overwhelmed,

the girl Mary had a moment—or perhaps years—

of revelatory and incidental wonders,

and even that morning, taking her breakfast,

she said something startling, and her dreams glistened

upon the outlines of face, shoulders, hips and feet;

and something gusted through the room,

hinting of chill and snowflakes.

—VH Wright, © 2009

Advent 7 and 8

December 5, 2009

 

Saturday.  Bring out the Christmas decorations.

Put up the tree and adorn the living room.

But first—feed the birds, who peer at me from the wire

every time I open the back door.

What a sunny day! Bones the cat longs

for out-of-doors. So I rake leaves

and let him stalk things for half an hour.

He must have his celebrations, too.

—Copyright © VH Wright, 2009

 

December 6, 2009

 

Later I will continue choosing ornaments

and digging out the holiday tea towels.

But now the cross is carried aloft from the nave

to the font to the table to its place near the lectern,

and we sing words almost too old for connection.

The vestments are shot through with greens and purples;

the cup and candlesticks glimmer. Such tones ring

uncomfortably deep, into memories bright and dark,

into twists of theology and the crowded dreams

of a conflicted race—that’s us,

hoping for heaven while the cookies bake,

praying our rosaries of unraveled lights and bells.

—Copyright © VH Wright, 2009

Advent Day 6

December 4, 2009

 

A tree in my neighborhood

serves as memorial shrine;

two years ago, ribbons and stuffed toys

nestled at its base. Later, vodka bottles.

Out of respect, I pulled the dogs away,

sent bits of prayer for the woman or boy,

the man or toddler gunned down

or killed in the crash.

 

More recent months found it empty.

Time heals or, more likely, wears away.

But this week, a new totem:

one large dolphin, all silver plush,

store tags intact. It hangs, head down,

its tail fin nailed to the tree.

I don’t know if this victim is old or new.

 

Maybe a bare winter oak calls out

the long sadness; maybe Christmas shopping

was rent by a sudden memory.

As for me, who must bear witness,

Advent proclaims the Child but

cries of children who, unnaturally still,

leave their toys perpetually new.

—© VH Wright, 2009

Advent days 4 and 5

December 2, 2009

Some days my words

find no good place to land,

or they do but slide immediately

into misinterpretation.

I wish I’d said nothing at all.

 

Looking forward to the day

when even the wrong words

express me precisely.

Yes, looking forward.

 

December 3, 2009

 

Spits of snow in the middle light,

when night-covered houses

regain color and shape,

and the dogs sniff through

their own version of the morning paper—

perusing leaves and tree trunks,

scraps of alley trash and freshly left

evidence of others of their species.

Always, they hope for something good

or, at least, compelling.

 

While I think my way through today’s list

and hope for something easy

or, at least, forgiving.

 

Copyright © VH Wright 2009