It’s ironic that the darkest quadrant of the year houses the season that celebrates the greatest historical light. Perhaps The Universal Prevailing Wisdom would intentionally prevent spiritual atrophy from a glut of inky shadow and feeble despondency by a flood of brightness from unusual astronomical manifestations.
I rather welcome the radiant coziness of a hearth in winter. It seems designated for protracted contemplation suppressed during glorious lilac springs and warmer months of light and heat. Summer is suffused with distractions and detours not conducive to musing. Heat that could poach us alive muffles reflection and leaves me a rather dull study. Thought becomes shallow in too much sun. It’s easy to become mentally muggy.
But being a mindless mollusk is packed with consequence. With the arrival of autumn, I begin to “brain without restraint.” Misguided neurological transmitting can be the sum of all evils! Scary.
So I have scaled back on questioning of late. Unusual for me. I’m guilty of inordinate inquiry, probing and trolling for answers that routinely prove elusive. It seems that whenever I spew whys and wherefores, it is from a perspective of anger and petulance. I become belligerent and defiant. I am not seeking answers so much as bawling tantrums heavenward. This violates a larger order, and light leeches away from me. Such disconnect. Consequently, I become incapable of stepping up to what might be required of me. That is counter-productive.
But questioning leaves me weary, (What else exhausts like sustained sorrow?) and often the answers are as counterfeit as the inquiries.
I have to continue on my pilgrimage from here. I cannot afford detours, especially those that become quicksand. We are obligated to be happy.
I have learned so many things. It’s a process. I am by no means a savant.
However, much of that knowledge I have gained, I’ve had to grow into. Growth is difficult and slow. Understanding arrives more with patient grace than with rocket force.
Perhaps the quest for Simple Healing brings its own comprehension. I guess that’s sufficient wisdom.
I do believe that to be resilient, one must be distracted regularly. And so I am particularly thankful for grandchildren, doctors’ appointments, and imbicilic sensationalism disguised as journalistic “breaking news.”
I have tried to schedule all my check-ups and procedures until after December 21st, when, according to the Mayan calendar, Doomsday will arrive. Apparently solar storms and toxic leaks are expected, the earth will collide with the planet Niburu, and there will be a robust shift in the earth’s magnetic orb…and I won’t have to have those two cavities filled or go for a colonoscopy. Glory Hallelujah! Procrastination has its privileges!
Personally, I embrace any diversion from royal reproduction obsession that will redirect the attention of the universe back to the things of greatest consequence where it belongs…like Tom and Katie’s divorce. What knocked that off the front page anyway? Hurricane Sandy? The Presidential election? The fiscal cliff, and whether we will all have to sell a kidney to buy a loaf of bread? Psshhah! Journalistic malfeasance.
Oh, there is such unintended humor in celebrity sensation, vacant minds and small thoughts. But at least it prevents us from indulging in wanton cogitation with a glut of the shabby, vulgar and prurient.
But the best way to shut and latch the door against brooding and the witless pursuit of answers, is watching a platoon of diminutive gangsters assault my Christmas tree with ornaments, unrestrained merriment and total lack of aptitude.
When the flurry of decorating was accomplished to their satisfaction, I noticed vast expanses of desolate Christmas tree wilderness, vague and spectral, where resided nary an ornament nor light bulb. The garlands were tangled and suspended vertically from the top of the tree – like festive streamers on a Maypole. Such joy in Whoville. The kids gathered round the branches and regarded it in wonder and awe. (I was also in shock.) I’d love to say we joined hands and sang carols around the tree, like a painting right out of Norman Rockwell. But alas. It was more like a brawl right out of the wrestling channel of adolescents high on gingersnaps and soda pop. I began muttering short declarative sentences like, “Don’t eat the dog food!” And, “It’s only a flesh wound! No stitches required!” It was all good.
It’s quite the loveliest tree. Euphoria and effervescence pre-empt expertise.
As time goes by, I better understand that it is good to survive, but imperative to adapt. One must adapt to prevail.
And adaptation demands distraction. One cannot rely solely on excessive caloric intake and caffeine buzz for holiday cheer. Six little warriors flinging themselves at each other like cannon balls in gleeful combat is potent diversion when one may be tempted toward dubious query counter-intuitive to better judgment.
Dennis would be pleased.