Words of Wisdom that Carried Me Through Other Dark Times: Desiderata

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Thomas Moran’s Apocalyptic Art of America’s Storied West

In the late 1960s and 1970s, this wisdom, –ostensibly found on a church wall – but I always felt it too modern for that claim–, pulled me through the darkest times of my life.

I send this as my post today, because we are living in tumult that, to me, exceeds the terrors of World War II.  At least, during WWII, the actions of tyrants were not aimed at our sacred planet itself.

My own mood is more akin to “…the center does not hold…     slouching toward Bethlehem to be born…”

But I cannot let myself fall into any slough of despond.  Never had LIGHT been more important in our world.

May these lines flow in and around you like grace, like honey itself, –shot through with light, bringing comfort and healing.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly and listen to others,
even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is.

Many persons strive for high ideals
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be not cynical about love,
for, in the face of all aridity and disappointment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with imaginings.

Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars.
You have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive God to be,

and whatever your labours and aspirations in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham and drudgery and broken dreams
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

 

Max Ehrman, 1927.

Found in Old Saint Paul’s Church, Baltimore, U.S.A. Dated 1692

From the Alt.Usage.English FAQ: “Desiderata” was written in 1927 by Max Ehrmann (1872-1945). In 1956, the rector of St. Paul’s Church in Baltimore, Maryland, used the poem in a collection of mimeographed inspirational material for his congregation. Someone who subsequently printed it asserted that it was found in Old St. Paul’s Church, dated 1692. The year 1692 was the founding date of the church and has nothing to do with the poem. See Fred D. Cavinder, “Desiderata”, TWA Ambassador, Aug. 1973, pp. 14-15.

 

 

Christmas Arrives in Unexpected Settings

 Waterville Valley Vistas

When one has a difficult mother,  it can become essential to distance one’s self and  family, particularly at the time of significant holidays.  If one has a courageous husband, he may announce, as the parental car pulled out of our Princeton driveway after a particularly grueling visit, “That’s it.  We are not letting her ruin another Christmas.  We are going skiing at Waterville.”

My husband, Werner Oscar Joseph Edelmann (for full effect say with German accent) was 100% Swiss.  Although he had not grown up skiing, we took it up as a family, the year we moved to Princeton – 1968.  Shore friends, sitting on their dune-cushioned deck, insisted that our families learn together.  It was August and steamy.  Winter?  WHAT Winter.  We said yes.

I secretly hoped some disaster, like a broken leg, or death, would intervene before that crucial February challenge.  None did.  So we all began to learn to ski.  The girls were in kindergarten and first grade.  At Killington, they looked like bunnies in their fuzzy snowsuits and fat mittens, among a gaggle of other little beginners, huddled at the base of ‘the bunny slope.’

They, being half Swiss, did not remain beginners very long.  In the year of our deliverance from my mother, they were teens who preferred ‘bombing the black lines’   – the expert slopes.  Especially “Oblivion” in Waterville Valley, New Hampshire.  The White Mountains were Werner’s choice for our runaway Christmas, because their ski school and an authentic Swiss lodge were run by Paul Pfosi.  All Paul’s instructors were Swiss.  Extremely demanding.  “Ski marks on the inside of your ski boots” to prove you had your legs close enough together.  Off-slope, they all delighted to converse in their native (unwritten) language with this tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed very determined American skier.  Stein Eriksen in those years was our hero, our model.

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No one would mistake us for Stein, but his example formed Pfosi’s Instructor Corps.

Anita Kathriner and Raphael Wyss make Alpkase, Mutschli and butter by hand in the traditional manner in a giant copper kettle over a wood burning fire at their cheese-making hut above Wengen, Switzerland

Swiss Copper Cheese Kettle in situ

Pfosi’s Lodge held the huge copper kettles we’d first seen in Emmenthaler, in which magnificent Swiss cheeses were precisely concocted.  Only Pfosi’s kettles overflowed with silky evergreen boughs from nearby endless forests.  Swiss Christmas music, such as relatives had carefully sent to Diane and Catherine over the years, pealed from hidden speakers.  Conditions were ideal on the slopes, and for any number of days we almost forgot it was Christmas.  But not quite.

Our family, over the years, had no experience of that Holiday beyond our own formal tree and hand-made-ornament tree, one by the living room fireplace, one by the family room’s slate hearth.  Heaven to us was a fire in each room, the three of us in long plaid skirts and white lace blouses, playing our guitars and caroling for Werner in the family room.  There’d always been the Nutcracker at Lincoln Center, and caroling in the neighborhood near Princeton’s Snowden Lane.  Could Christmas find us in New Hampshire?

There was a tiny church in the village below the lodge.  It felt very odd to go to church in ski clothes and apres-ski boots.  Instead of a jungle of poinsettias in the Princeton church, but two tiny ones ‘decked’ this austere altar.  Instead of instruments sustaining voices back home, a motley choir with cracking voices sang in a small wooden balcony high overhead.  But it was Midnight Mass, and it did hold all the magic we needed.  And the quivering voices underscored a somehow more memaningful reality.

We drove back up the mountain, past the restaurant where we’d had Christmas Eve Supper.  We’d sat next to a live birch tree, somehow able to live and thrive indoors, reaching for the midnight sky.  Between dinner and church, we’d been astounded by stars beyond counting, which seemed nearly blinding.  But between church and the lodge, no stars.  Instead, white swirls, glistening to be sure, of new snowflakes — no more welcome blessing in ski country at Christmas.

Swiss Santa in Boat

Back in our rooms — it must have been near 2 a.m. by now — we found dark Swiss chocolates wrapped in bright gold foil upon our pillows,.  Pfosi’s had signed lacy old-fashioned Christmas cards with gilt arabesques, such as those which arrived every year from Tante Li, Onkel Joni, Cousin Vera and the rest of the family in and near St. Gallen.  I cannot spell their Christmas message, but we all knew how to say it in Swiss — it sounded like FRO-LIKKA-VIE-NOCKTEN.  One said this with certain notes in our voices which the girls had heard since babyhood..

Frohlichi Wiehnacht Swiss Christmas Card

Diane’s and Catherine’s room was right across the narrow hall from ours.  They burst in, laughing all over.  “Come Quick!  Come Quick!  Carolers!”

We “thrust open the windows, threw up the sash” onto a scene I will never forget.  Snow circled, enfolding us as though we had been transported into the Milky Way. itself, Horses snorted and their visible breath mingled with the flakes.  Yes, sleigh bells jingled.  Tucked into hay in an old fashioned sleigh were male and female carolers, dressed as we had been for Mass, in ski parkas and ski mitts and knit hats.  These voices sounded like tiny silver chimes, like bells, rising into the heavens in celebration.

And we’d thought Christmas was only in our family room…

It wasn’t every Christmas morning that opened on a trail named “Oblivion”!

The Mountain, Waterville Valley

May each of you find your special holiday exactly as you need it this year — and may its real message of Peace on Earth, Good Will, suffuse our entire planet.

Here is an ad from the 1970’s, when we were there:

ski watervi w va NEW HAMPSHIRE PFOSI S LODGE Willkommen! Paul Pfosi, Director of the Waterville Valley Ski School, invites you to enjoy the Swiss-American hospitality of Pfosi’s Lodge. Alodge unique in every way combining old world charm with the most modern American accommodations and conveniences; …

The future would bring Christmas in other realms:

Aspen skiing scene,jpg

In Aspen, we could ski through forests.

In Zermatt, the Materhorn always tantalized:

Zermatt Materhorn from Internet

 

But the slopes held the magic:

 

Swiss skier from Internet

BUT NOTHING EVER TOPPED CAROLERS IN THE HORSE-DRAWN SLEIGH OUTSIDE THE OPEN WINDOWS OF PFOSI’S LODGE OF WATERVILLE.

REALITY – Joyeux Noel

NJWILDBEAUTY readers and all my friends know; and some powerfully share; my longing always to be in France in general, in Provence in particular.

Writing in my journal this morning, Christmas Eve, I discovered, “I wish it were 1987.”

Then, I was a resident of Cannes, although it was far easier to walk into Picasso’s Vallauris than to drive down into Cannes on those cooked-spaghetti roads.

The scene below does not take place in an unheated, unscreened, capacious apartment above the Mediterranean, while magenta rose laurier bloom in my garden.  There aren’t Alps out my kitchen window, frosted with first flakes.  There are no un-snowy pre-Alps processing beyond living room windows, wreathed with all those Corniches, leading from beloved France into redolent, resonant Italy.  There is neither the Esterel Forest nor the Esteril Massif (mountain range), — all coppery and russet and terra cotta and sometimes even magenta and claret and ruby; the turquoise sea frothing at their feet.  No, this is Lawrenceville, New Jersey.  It’s the home of a person who was only an expatriate for one year; but who thinks she was born that way, and will never recover.

The poster in the scene below celebrates an exhibit at Galerie La Licorne, (the Unicorn) in Juan-les-Pins.  My firstborn and I, back in 1981, were enthralled by it, in the lobby of the establishment of potters in that storied town.  Madoura are solely licensed to bring Picasso’s platters, plates and pitchers to life in the years after his death.

The Madoura staff watched that young girl reverently touch, study, absorb Pablo’s work throughout those bountiful rooms. Her hands, in the presence of Picasso’s ouevre, were as full of awe as a priest’s at his first mass, holding the Host.

Entranced from the first, we’d asked the owners if we might buy the poster (l’affiche.)  “No,” they instructed, “you’ll have to go to Juan-les-PIns.”  We explained that we’d been there only yesterday, and that we would fly home the following day.  We regretted together that a return to the Unicorn was not possible.

Ah, but the owners of Madoura Poterie were so impressed by Diane’s attention to the Master’s work, that they presented her with the rolled, beribboned poster, when we finally brought ourselves to leave.

santons-and-french-poster-and-ungerleiter-still-life-december-2016

Santons de Provence, the Large and the Small, in Lawrenceville, New Jersey

No that is not a Cezanne, nearer the viewer, needless to say.  It is a Bernard Ungerleiter (of Lambertville, New Jersey), our Cezanne.  I have two of his works in my dining room – the other of garlic.  I had been with his wife, Peg, as she bought the fat pale heads, as juicy as l’ail de Provence, at a Pennsylvania farm market in the early 1980’s.  Bernard wouldn’t let her cook with it – he had to paint it!

The large santons (terra cotta figures that accompany the manger scene in Provence) were bought by my Swiss husband for our family, in Vence or St. Paul-de-Vence, when the girls were 7 and 8 years old.  The tiny santons, –not garbed as are the older sets, are of plain terra cotta (terre cuite in France — cooked earth).  One is supposed to buy them at the smart art store on Rue d’Antibes in Cannes, then take them home to paint  I love the hues and textures of the roof-tiles of Provence.  When I can bring myself to arrange those santons each current Christmas, I am very glad not to have altered them in any way..

close-up-santons-december-2016

Close-Up of the Santons, and of Noel Provencal — which I re-read each December, savoring hearty rituals of the land I cherish, from the wheat of the feast of Saint Barbara to les treize (13!) desserts of this night of the birth of Le Nouveau-Ne

Why do I want this Christmas Eve to be 1987’s?  Because, then I’d be taking my French gifts, –bought in the Nice Vieux Ville (Old Towne)– across the way in the dark to the tower where my young neighbors lived:  L’Observatoire… 

We’d had so much fun exploring together, since my late autumn arrival.  Even though everyone back home had said, “You’re going to be so lonely.  They will never invite you into their homes!”  Wrong.

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Santon de Provence, Shepherd’s Cape

Jeanette et Didier and their little ones  wanted me with them for Christmas Eve supper next to their real tree, abundant with home-made ornaments.  They wanted me to share gift-opening with their family.  But the heart of the matter would be Midnight Mass (La Messe de Minuit) in Le Suquet.  This is the oldest part of Cannes, its barely known rocky promontory.  It served as a major watch site for hundreds of years and conflicts, dating back to Phonecians and Saracens. .

Our normal French Christmas Eve supper was nothing less than canard a la orange and frites’ and o, my, such slender, savory golden turnips!  Jeanette had tossed it all together without any fuss, the way my Michigan mother had made meat loaf and baked potatoes.

My gifts of large comic books (Tin-Tin — the French never lose their taste for comic strips) for the children, and candied fruits from the legendary Confiserie Auer near Nice’s Place Massena, were enormous successes.  I was one with this family, wrapped in their fondness, uplifted by their merriment.

These qualities have been in pretty short supply ever since.  Some who know me; and some who read my blogs; realize that I work very hard to survive Christmas every year, deprived as I am of my own family.

Usually, I ‘run away’.  Last year, I fled to Cape May, and often to the Brigantine. I pretend that birding the day away is all that matters.  I never did this with my lost daughters because I didn’t know any interesting birds in those days.

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The Basket-Weaver and the Garlic-Braider observe Le Nouveau-Ne

Midnight Mass in Cannes was spoken and sung in three languages:  Latin, English and Provencal!  I knew two, but not three.  It was a thrill to hear the old songs in all tongues, and be able to sing some, even remembering Latin.

How I marveled to hear the gospel begin, “Dans le temps de Cesar Auguste.”   Indeed.  The very day before, I had spent in Frejus, favorite town of Augustus Caesar.  I’d found his port, his forum, his theatre, and something called La Lanterne d’Auguste — a species of lighthouse.  I’d feasted on rare lamb and Salade Antiboise across from that forum, writing feverish poems about the sense of ancient bullfights suffusing me near the ancient chutes through which animals had exploded innto the sawdust arena.

This is not the first time I’ve said, “Call me a dreamer; well, maybe I am…”   But when the French priest spoke those words of the emperor in whose footsteps I’d trod all the previous day, I suddenly realized the bible was real!  I didn’t know I didn’t know that until the holy night alongside my dear new friends of Cannes.

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Traditional Santons de Provence, in hand-made costumes

The Mass was enlivened with living santons.  Women and men and children of the village had practiced for months for these few moments of procession and recession (which had NO economic tinge in that place!)  They wore the noble costumes of ancient times, in this region that has never fully been assimilated into France itself!  Accurate down to the lace on their petticoats, and the heft of sabots (like Dutch wooden shoes) of other eras, making a venerable sound of hollowness on the church’s marble floor.

Shepherds in flowing cloaks, the hue of camels, demonstrated why their hefty garb had the extra fabric on the shoulders.  They carried real lambs and real kids, on those capelets, to be blessed by the priest and to honor the Infant, Le Nouveau-Ne, the Newborn.

Others bore grapes; demijohns of wine; clear glass globules of golden olive oil.  The oldest women preceded the parents of the newest babe, these honorary grandmothers presenting layettes freshly made for this precious human child.  The young ones knelt and placed their infant in straw in a manger at the foot of the altar.

Then, all who carried the season’s fruits, alive and otherwise, recessed to the enormous terra cotta creche (Nativity Scene) on a far wall.  High in the back, where mountains loomed, the Three Kings and their servants (one of whom, Balthazar, is said to have founded nearby Les Baux) moved in stately array, ponderous and elegant as any wedding in Westminster Abbey.  Epiphany would have to wait until January the 6th, but the royal ones were already en route, following the star.

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Portrait of my Daughters by V. Durbin Thibodeau, Artist-in-Residence of the Sacred Heart School of Grosse Point, Michigan

1987 was the year in which my daughters were taken.  I realized this fully at the time of my fiftieth birthday.  Standing on my luminous balcony, overlooking the midnight-blue-black Mediterranean, I watched stars wink on high.  They seemed to fall right into my shallow champagne glass, joining tears.

But Christmas Eve, 1987, for those few hours with friends in the tiny stony church of Le Suqauet, beloved traditions in my favorite favorite region of my favorite land, washed over me, banishing grief.

It became clear that night, and I must return to this certainty every year.  My loss was as nothing, compared to what had happened “dans le temps de Cesar Auguste,” in a time in the world when Peace ruled.

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La lavandiere, Provencal Santon

Tonight, many will follow La Messe de Minuit in tiny churches all over the South of France.  When they eat their ‘meagre supper’ (meatless), it will be followed by les treize desserts.   At a certain time during the family gathering, the eldest will lead and the youngest grace the rear of the family parade in to the Yule Log.  Vin cuit, cooked wine, will be sprinkled onto this hefty log, chosen just that afternoon for the purposes.  A prayer will be said, hearthside.  I wish it for all of you:

“Next year, if we are not more, may we at least, not be fewer.”

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Santon – Bread-Maker:  [ALL SANTONS CLOSE-UPS ARE FROM INTERNET)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hyde Park Memories

Mosaic in Lobby of FDR/ER Library, revealing the lay of the land and our pilgrimage to excellence, last weekend and last May…

Eleanor's Haven Hyde Park

Eleanor’s Val-Kill Cottage, her blessed hideaway in her final years

NJWILDBEAUTY readers know I have just returned from the Hudson River Valley, with two dear members of the Intrepids, Jeanette Hooban and Janet Black.  We were on yet another Eleanor-and-Franklin-quest.  Mountains taught us that they have nothing to do with with other weathers in nearby regions, nor even with sophisticated forecasts.  Many a day was grim and grey, but mountains sustained us, and Springwood and the FDR/ER Library significantly expanded our knowledge of our two heroes. FDR's HIdeaway from Sara at Val Kill

Top Cottage, designed by FDR as getaway from his formidable mother, Sara Delano Roosevelt

Top Cottage won’t be open til May, so we Intrepids will plan another journey.

Here are images from a sunnier time in Hyde Park and Rhinebeck.  Travel with us – having all the advantages, and none of the disadvantages of our getaway.

Jeanette and Carolyn on Steps of Springwood FDR

Carolyn Yoder and Jeanette Hooban, resting on the front porch of Springwood, FDR’s boyhood home in Hyde Park

 

Spring at FDR Library May 2015

Spring Blossoms in FDR’s Garden at Springwood and the FDR/ER Library

Springwood Eleanor's Violets Rose Garden May 2015

Spring in Eleanor’s Rose Garden, as Violets hint of the roses to come

 

RIP FDR Springwood Rose Garden May 2015

Resting in the Peace they Forged – our Heroes, Eleanor and Franklin in the Rose Garden, accompanied by their boon companion, the faithful Scottie, Fala

Perhaps we should credit the examples of Eleanor and Franklin, where courage and persistence are concerned, with the continuing fortitude of the Intrepids.

Despite mountain-birthed weather systems last weekend, Jeanette and Janet and I made repeated pilgrimages into sites vital to Eleanor and Franklin, without whom the world would not have been saved from the most dire Depression and all those wars.

Our hikes were curtailed, but our history-quest expanded and expanded.

Gastronomic treats abounded in nearby Rhinebeck.

And purple mountain majesties brooded impressively over all, often reflected in the shimmering broad Hudson River that sustained ‘my’ president.  Janet rode home to Manhattan in a sleek train that hugged the river’s shore.  Mountains seemed carved of slate, reflected in waters running orange and coral and tangerine and pink and mauve, right outside her window.

Those forested slopes crowning the landscapes reminded us that FDR was a legend and an enemy (depending upon party) in his time for creating crucial National Parks, –especially saving the Everglades; and attending to the needs of wild creatures, –particularly the American bald eagle and the trumpeter swan.  Coming upon a clear-cut in the West, our president, my president, is quoted in Douglas Brinkley’s new book on FDR and land preservation, as hoping that the “s.o.b. who logged that is roasting in hell.”  As a child, we never heard language like this.  As a greatly disillusioned adult, I rejoice in his accuracy, even prophecy.  For the clearcutting seems to go on unabated, nature’s foes seeming to say “the hell with carbon sinks.”

There wouldn’t be an Assateague without Franklin’s courage, nor my beloved Monomoy Wildlife Refuge off Chatham, Massachusetts.  This president buttressed the legendary Rosalie Edge of Hawk Mountain Refuge, above nearby Hamburg, Pennsylvania, in stopping the most egregious raptor slaughter in our land.

I confess to having assumed that TR was the National Park President.  Yes, but his relative, his successor, knew the essentiality of saving wild America, especially her coastlines.

So much that makes America America, we owe to Roosevelts.

In case you wonder, that’s why THIS preservationist keeps making pilgrimages to the Hudson River Valley.

And why she brought home Brinkley’s Rightful Heritage – Franklin D. Roosevelt and the Land of America, to take its place ultimately alongside Brinkley’s The Wilderness Warrier — Theodore Roosevelt and the Crusade for America.

All Aboard Hyde Park Train Station

Franklin’s and Eleanor’s Train Station

 

Christmas Fable: Star-Guided

When I lived in New Hope, for some reason, my Muse insisted that we write fables.  Here is one of the earliest, which has to do with the Christmas Season.  May it bring delight and blessings:

STAR-GUIDED

We are striding Bethlehem’s dark streets with curious urgency. We know where we are headed, although none has been to Bethlehem-of-Judea before this electric night. All is eerily still, the entire town asleep save for our small band of travelers.   The streets here are like mazes.   They are rough underfoot.

I walk gingerly, afraid of turning an ankle in our haste. My tall daughter, Catherine, strides beside me. Each of us is impeded by a long light traveling dress and thicker cloak, which stir up street dust as we go. Upon our feet are leathern slippers too fragile for such journeying. Her companion, the knight, Galen, is safe enough, encased as he is in bright armor. Merlin shuffles, as always. His robes, as are his habit, are askew. His hair is all-a-tumble. Every so often, his starred cap tumbles off, and he scurries back through the dark dust to retrieve it. Merlin, mercifully, carries a pole with a swinging lantern. Its fat yellowed candle casts pools of honeyed light before our feet. When he is not chasing his hat, the Merlin cheerfully leads our procession.

The dwellings, what I can see of them, seem sculpted of clay. They have a pink-grey cast by lamplight. The moon this night is somehow obscured. There are a few stars, which deepen our shadows, purple against the sand-hued roads.

We are responding to an unfamiliar star. Either because it is lower or simply brighter than the rest, it seems to be playing a game with us. If we start to take a turn that is not right, that star flutters and dims.   When we turn in the correct direction, the star grows steadier, more intense.

In this way, we find ourselves at a nondescript hostelry. Jarring sounds of revelry spill into its courtyard, startling after all the silence of the town. Out in back, where Merlin leads us almost stealthily, quiet reigns. In this dusky quarter, I am increasingly grateful for his lantern.

The Wizard lifts his light on high, revealing a small outbuilding. In its dim interior, I can just make out the form of a very young woman, seated next to a low wooden container lined with straw. From the center of that straw emanates a mysterious glow, soft as candlelight but much steadier.

I realize Whom and what we have been seeking. My knees are trembling. All of my being is drawn to that hushed glow.

I am startled by the young Mother’s youth. She is not much in years beyond my tall teen-aged Catherine. Petite, slender, the woman of Judea looks too frail and much too inexperienced to be anyone’s mother. Let alone…!

Behind her, nearly hidden in shadow, is the man who must be her husband. He looks more like a kindly uncle. “Joseph,” I think, “seems a bit confused. More like Merlin’s usual mode. Merlin, on the contrary, tonight is clear as bells.”

Joseph seems a good deal older than Mary. It may be just the differences, — in background, in training. He is fulfilling his role as guardian. Yet he is not of her milieu. Most of what has been happening to him in recent months must have been baffling. Nonetheless, as we all must do, the man trusts and serves. I feel deep empathy for all that lies before him.

And I am awash in compassion for Mary. Perhaps because of Merlin’s presence, I can read this girl’s emotions. I never before suspected her profound loneliness.   Her cross is not only that she has born this wondrous Child only to lose Him. Her cross is that she must carry out all to which she has agreed, isolated from all who understand. All those who had taught, those who could reassure, are far, far from this stableyard.

Although the Flight unto Egypt has always before seemed a terrible ordeal for parents and child, I now see it as blessing. Once there, she will discover for a few years, those who know the full story of this rare family and its many destinations. Yet on this night, and throughout so many of her recent years, with the exception of one small mentor in the Temple, Mary has been in exile.

The Child lies sleeping on golden hay, meant to nourish creatures of the Inn’s farmyard. The very grasses emit rays.

We are all drawn to our knees, as much by Mary’s courage and serene obedience, as by the Presence of the Babe. The gleam of Merlin’s lantern flitters across the Baby’s eyes, waking Him. He blinks and an almost-smile plays across the Infant features, as light rays play like rainbows across the tiny face. He waves tiny hands as though to catch the Wizard’s glimmers.

Joseph rouses himself, suddenly aware that they have visitors. Drowsily he waves a greeting, then retires to the darkest corner of the stable. It is as though, with us among them, that tired traveler can rest. He has endured so much, without understanding, without complaint.   Joseph’s role is merely to love and to protect. It is enough. The man’s legs now, literally, give out beneath him. He settles onto straw bales for his sleep.

My eyes, accustomed now to gloom, become aware of cattle. Nestled behind a barrier of wood, their breath steams in the night air.   These cows have huge bittersweet eyes, that seem to widen as the Baby moves His tiny hands. Their skin is the hue of milk chocolate. There are smaller creatures here with us – sheep, and delicate, silky goats. I don’t remember goats at that Stable, but here they are – dainty, with long hair and perky faces, hooves like the dancing princesses, like the ones who prance through meadows above Zermatt. The goat’s eyes are cinder-bright. Their cloaks gleam in the lanternlight and Infant-glow. I feel warmed by the gaze, the breath, the presence of the barnyard creatures. About our feet are hens, too, scratching at straws, searching diligently as close as they can be to the Child.

Outside, somehow, the skies grow brighter. It becomes increasingly easy to see.

Merlin rises and approaches the child/woman who guards the rough manger. He fumbles in that voluminous wiry beard. “I know it was here when I came!,” he growls, in his absent way. “Sorry, Madame, it won’t be but a moment.” Then the old man pulls out one of the tiniest living creatures I have ever seen.   A miniscule saw-whet owl, it is not so big as one of Mary’s hands, folded in her slender lap. The tall Wizard bends, cupping the owl in both gnarled palms. The creature snuggles daintily onto Mary’s right shoulder, nuzzling into her corn-silk hair. Mary looks obviously enchanted with Merlin’s gift.   As she claps her hands with delight, we are all aware of her own nearness to childhood.

Galen next moves. In his silvery armor, helmet in the crook of his left arm, the boy kneels, formal as he would have been in the Initiation ceremonies. The plume of his hat dances, catching the Baby’s dark eyes. It is then that light from Merlin’s lantern falls upon the gilt cross on Galen’s silvery breast. The Babe is riveted to that image, reaching out, then still. All time stops.

Galen breaks the spell with his mellifluous voice: “Crystals I bring,” says the lad. He lays bright offerings into Mary’s slender hands with a caressing gesture. I am reminded of a game we played as boys and girls – “Button-Button.” Then, prayer-shaped hands cradled a button secretly into someone’s matching hands.   Everyone then was to guess whose hands held the gift.

“These crystals are for you, Maria,” Galen explains, slipping into her Latin name, as though from long familiarity. “Hold them,” he instructs. “Bring the Light with them, to warm, to comfort, the Babe, yourself. You will be needing them upon your journey. For the duration of your time in this place, lay them in His cradle as He lies.”

Mary lifts up first one angled crystal, then another, turning them this way and that, in starlight, in lamplight. She runs attuned fingers over every facet, studies all the power dancing in their depths.   Mary reaches out her right hand, — crystals and all –, touching Galen, light as a kiss, on each cheek.

It is my daughter’s turn.   In her soft dress and flowing cloak, my daughter has a new queenliness I had not before acknowledged. She towers over the young Mother. Catherine’s towhead tresses seem to glow, against the darker gold of Mary’s hair. As Catherine leans over the Baby, taking one of His tiny hands into her own, her long hair brushes His little face. Something like a smile flitters over Him, as though it tickled, and there is a sound, very like new laughter.

Suddenly, in the icy stillness of that Bethlehem night, Catherine lifts her voice in song. We are startled, all of us, by the pure notes in the clear cold air. The songs sound ancient – Medieval, I would guess, or Welsh. Starlight skitters among us, and I think of music of the spheres.   I realize, my daughter is singing the first Christmas Carols.

The Infant turns, then, from Catherine to the rest of us. His eyes are not only dark, but also golden. The only name for that color is “toffee”, for that includes their uncanny softness. I watch the Child watch us. He knows who we are. He has expected us. Through His awareness, I realize that we fill the role of cosmic “Magi”, Merlin above all, first visitors to honor this rare King, until the other Kings arrive.   They will be accompanied by very earthy camels, guided by their own heavenly voices and specialized stars.

Through those gilded eyes, I see the Baby’s emotions, as I could his Mother’s. There is something familiar yet unknown in those bronze depths.   The only name I can give for this is shock. So must we all have looked, first opening to Earth Plane, realizing our choices, recognizing companions…

Peace floods the stable.   We bask in unconditional love.   Then the Child, once again, sights the cross on Galen’s armor. The newborn hands open. Where light rays had poured, when he’d reached up to play with Catherine’s bright hair, now there are shadows. I recognize those shadows – somewhere between bruise and blood.   Stigmata. I turn at once toward Mary. Her sweet eyes are riveted upon those hands.

I have not given a gift.   My own hands have been seriously emptied by life, by the times. I rise, then, move instinctively to Mary. I embrace her girlish shoulders, as I would any new mother. “How wonderful you are!,” I murmur. “How brave! Such a beautiful Son!” All the phrases women have said to each other at such moments from the dawn of language, we exchange. At the end, I add, “I wish you joy.”

She looks up with a plea I fully hear.

“You are weary, Mary.   It is time for your rest. You cannot keep vigil all night, every night, alone. He is safe here, safe with us. Go. Go over to your Joseph.   Sleep. We will watch the night with your precious Boy.”

She looks hesitantly from one of us to the other, as if to gain permission. All of us are nodding in permission, the stately Merlin above all.   He retrieves Strigi, the little saw-whet owl, and actually shoos Mary over toward the corner. She looks back at her Little One, still not sure. He stirs, restlessly.

I reach down, lift up the Child, cradling him easily upon one hip. It all comes back. The awkwardness I knew with my own firstborn, this surety now. How grateful I had been , in those long-ago days, for practiced arms, arms that were sure and even relaxed around my daughters. The Baby senses my ease, curling naturally against my side. Mary looks relieved and moves, indeed, toward Joseph. My second-born rises and removes her periwinkle-blue cloak.

“Mary,” Catherine urges, “here. Please cover yourself with this.   And sleep. Deeply and well. Dream of all the joys you will have, He and you together.” Mary smiles up at my daughter, accepting the soft warmth.   She lifts her right hand in a good-night gesture, revealing the sparks of Galen’s crystals.

I settle the Infant lightly into the crook of my left arm. He curls a tiny hand naturally, instinctively, around my forefinger. He is rest itself. A soft light radiates from the small body, merging with the light of Merlin’s lantern and the spill of stars. In hushed tones, Catherine and Galen begin to sing lullabyes.

Dawn light comes all too soon. Outside, in rustling trees that sound like palms, birds I do not know begin to call to one another. In the inn courtyard, there is the jangle and clatter of first departing travelers. We overhear inquiring voices, simple country accents. These will be the shepherds, asking as they have been led to ask.

Skies overhead fill with angels, glorias. Our vigil is rapidly ending.

Catherine and Galen move swiftly, tenderly to the sleeping Family. They urge the young parents to rise, help them smooth and brush their clothing. Merlin provides water in a generous metal dipper. Mary gracefully removes my daughter’s travel cloak, clasping it about Catherine’s lofty neck. “Thank you,” Mary whispers.   “I shall never forget your songs, your cloak. There will come a time when you may require the same of me. Call upon me. Remember…”

I settle the Babe into His Mother’s eager arms. Her look of joy wars with full realization, of all that has been foretold. Mary presses her cheek against my own, nodding in silent gratitude. She resumes her post. Joseph stands sturdily behind her, one hand on the staff which helped to bring them to this haven. The Baby nuzzles, urgently, begins to nurse.

There is the rustle of straw as shepherds kneel.

With Merlin in the lead, we all fade into, then out of the stable shadows. I give the silken goats a lingering caress as we depart.