Dickens' Christmas Spirit

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Not having taken part in any of the true miseries known to man, I only know about them through words and images shared by others. The plight of the poor throughout history, and now on the very planet I inhabit, is beyond the comprehension of someone like me who lives in the best of comfort and health. As I prepared this post, I read about the Poor Laws in Britain’s history, fascinating and horrifying. (You can read a good wiki article about Britain’s Poor Laws here.) The New Poor Law of 1834, enacted a decade before Charles Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol, was a huge legislation to ensure that no one would receive relief from poverty outside the parish workhouses, which were intentionally kept miserable so that a person wouldn’t be tempted to rely on them out of indolence. Dickens himself had to work at a factory as a child, and the anguish he experienced remained with him his whole life, infusing it in his novels that are so poignantly sympathetic to the poor.

Earlier the same year that he published A Christmas Carol . . .

Dickens was keenly touched by the lot of poor children . . . In early 1843, he toured the Cornish tin mines where he saw children working in appalling conditions. The suffering he witnessed there was reinforced by a visit to the Field Lane Ragged School, one of several London schools set up for the education of the capital's half-starved, illiterate street children. Inspired by the February 1843 parliamentary report exposing the effects of the Industrial Revolution upon poor children called Second Report of the Children's Employment Commission, Dickens planned in May 1843 to publish an inexpensive political pamphlet tentatively titled, "An Appeal to the People of England, on behalf of the Poor Man's Child" but changed his mind, deferring the pamphlet's production until the end of the year. He wrote to Dr. Southwood Smith, one of four commissioners responsible for the Second Report, about his change in plans: "[Y]ou will certainly feel that a Sledge hammer has come down with twenty times the force – twenty thousand times the force – I could exert by following out my first idea." The pamphlet would become A Christmas Carol. (Copied from this wiki article)

After re-watching the 1938 film "A Christmas Carol" with Reginald Owen on the weekend, I was reminded what the magic and mystery of Christmas is. We have the Christmas energy inside us all the time, all the love we have ever encountered with family, friends and even strangers. The joy of human connection, even in the most dire of circumstances, even when we are surrounded by greed. The possibility that with the right outlook, joy is always possible, and can always be spread to another. At Christmas, we pull out our lifetime of stored love when we re-open Christmas boxes. White lights remind us of stars that have shone on every man and woman in history – the same stars. Imagine. We are all one human organism. The magic we share is available outside of Christmas! For some, it seems especially hidden at Christmas. What a shame, if we forget it after Christmas, or miss it during Christmas when it is eclipsed by commercialism.

For me, old decorations and illustrations bring out a special nostalgic feeling that makes Christmas special. I am a big fan of Arthur Rackham (good bio here), the British illustrator who was hugely successful at the turn of the 20th century known for his "depictions of gnomes, goblins, witches, and fairies, as well as his anthropomorphized trees," so I am posting five of his illustrations for the 1915 edition of A Christmas Carol, along with a few quotes from Dickens’ classic novel. Can you imagine a world without this story? Apparently the greeting “Merry Christmas” was first used after this novel. 

Bob Cratchit went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, 
twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas Eve.

Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown,

which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall

"If I could work my will," said Scrooge indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!"

"How now?" said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever

"What do you want with me?"

"There are some upon this earth of yours," returned the Spirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us and all out kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us."

The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in

restless haste and moaning as they went

Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea -- on, on -- until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him.

Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig

The poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish Onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish Friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers' benevolence to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner.


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"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can."


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"A merry Christmas, Bob!" said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. "A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year! I'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the fires, and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit."
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Winter at last: nostalgia

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Lately, my thoughts want to come out in poems. I don't know what has happened, it's never been like this before. I think I just long for an economy of words. I am also reading more poems than anything else. Mary Oliver. Rainer Maria Rilke. Rumi. Charles Bukowski. Mark Strand. Whatever Garrison Keillor offers in the daily Writer's Almanac. The poems you write. Or, if I read a book or an article, I read them in short bursts, as if a paragraph is a prose poem. I force myself to read a few Op Eds in the NY Times or BBC online. Have you ever read David Brooks or Paul Krugman with an eye to metaphor? OK, I just clicked on the Opinion page to find some good metaphors to show you what I mean, and guess what? Paul Krugman's piece today is titled: Block those Metaphors. I'm not kidding, it happened just like that, synchronously. Is he saying he doesn't want me to co-opt his column as poetry?

Anyway. When the snow finally arrived on the weekend, I felt at ease, at last. A poem-memory slid out. Also, because of the nostalgia, I turned the photos sepia. Don't get me wrong. I love the blue of winter, and I'll show you plenty of it in the months to come. But for this first snowfall, let me take you back . . .

Winter at last

When at last she comes

in the middle of December

Winter pulls our old toboggan of bamboo

by its curled bow

like a come-hither finger

“Sorry I’m late”

and in red and black woolens

I climb onto the vinyl pad

with three older brothers

me pocketed in the imperial front seat

of the curl

muscled by their weight behind

secure in their brotherly oar-like legs

shoving off the hill into the wild white

like Norse Vikings, my seven-year-old face

the brave winter-fairy figurehead

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Both a Breath and a Shout

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Liu Xiaobo's empty chair at the Nobel Peace Prize ceremony

For the record:

Thank you to the powers that be and have been these two hundred thirty-four years. For being able to use words the way I want. For John Milton, John Locke, and John Stuart Mill. For Noam Chomsky. (Even for Julian Assange?) For Rainer Maria Rilke who wrote: "Maybe we're here only to say: house, / bridge, well, gate, jug, olive tree, window — / at most, pillar, tower ... but to say them, remember, / oh, to say them in a way that the things themselves / never dreamed of existing so intensely." For all words spoken and written. For blogging. For Blogger! For free, and for freedom. For you. For me. And especially today, for Liu Xiaobo.

Both a Breath and a Shout

by Rainer Maria Rilke

I want to praise him.

Loud as a trumpet

in the vanguard of the army,

I will run ahead and proclaim.

My words will be sweet to hear.

My people will drink them in like wine

and not get drunk.

And on moonless nights, when few remain

around my tent, I will make music as soft

as a last warm wind that hovers

late and tender before the winter's chill.

So my voice becomes both a breath and a shout.

One prepares the way, the other

surrounds my loneliness with angels.


~ from The Book of Hours, 1899-1903

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What a dance

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What a dance

Snow flakes fell every day

that I reclined sick

indoors watching them

probe

limbo

from the red chair

but still they

barely

fill the wrinkles

of ground I walk

after all that lying down

not having been able

to rest

themselves

being blown

continuously

around

like thoughts

that don’t

murmur

beyond seeds

Something

has happened

in the night while I

lay

sleepless and warm

walnut leaves lie coupled

stiffly

around the silent

chicken yard

bucks have rubbed

diadems

on the social thrift

of sumac

thistle heads toppled

and surrendered bladders

of silk

the fallen tree

is piled in half-chopped logs

like stacks of half-

read books

poke berries shine

like deer pellets

and deer pellets shine

like poke berries

the frozen white platter

of the pond

bears black marks

that twirl and slide

jump and land

such tiny paws

and large hooves

tied together

by claw-dragged lines

What a dance it must have been

for each one

going after the mystery

in their own way 

Listen to a podcast of this poem here.
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The way I want Christmas

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     The way I want Christmas is withdrawn, but attentive, and giving. Like a woman. During holiday hullabaloo the thrusts of commerce, and even sometimes of the church, impose upon the quiet of inner space. Any day of the year, whether in a state of joy, sorrow, or even turmoil, I want to rise and fall gently on the day's currents--nose flared, eyes raised, hands unclasped, ears unlocked. But some of the air is raucous, rank, deafening, false, and deadening. At home I pull down Christmas tubs and unsnap lids. Out with the ribbons and glitter spirals the remembered scent of oranges studded with cloves. It is a woman’s fragrance, the earth. My mother.

     And out comes the 1955 Christmas songbook, dull matte blue with worn embossed singing angels on the cover, its spine reinforced with duct tape by my father. Mom’s dark eyes ignite in candlelight at the mahogany piano, and blue-ridge vein rivers roll over her knuckles while she plays Go Tell It on the Mountain. Hip-to-hip on the needlepointed piano bench we sit where she has also taught me to play in hours of tearful frustration. But as if turning out the lamps and lighting the tree and candles illuminates a different piano and alternate faces, during these easy-going Christmas carol hours there is no tension, no mother-daughter resistance or pride. She plays and plays, and I sing, and turn the page to the next. The music floats in flakes of effortless snowfall. Many songs are foreign, strange, and special, never appearing in a church hymnal. They are haunting in their folk lyrics and minor keys. They are of woods and tender brown animals. They bloom with holly leaves and stars. They rasp with bagpipe and fiddle. They are blue, cold nights of Croatian shepherds, French rushes of wings, and a hand hewn rocking cradle of Czechoslovakia. They are whisper-sung by a woman in front of a fire, baby at her breast, fat cheeks aglow and rosy-warm, drinking the quieting calm that streams from inside a woman. Christmas is my mother’s lullaby.

TO SAY BEFORE GOING TO SLEEP

I would like to sing someone to sleep,

to sit beside someone and be there.

I would like to rock you and sing softly

and go with you to and from sleep.

I would like to be the one in the house

who knew: The night was cold.

And I would like to listen in and listen out

into you, into the world, into the woods.

The clocks shout to one another striking,

and one sees to the bottom of time.

And down below one last, strange man walks by

and rouses a strange dog.

And after that comes silence.

I have laid my eyes upon you wide;

and they hold you gently and let you go

when something stirs in the dark.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke
(from The Book of Images, translated by Edward Snow in 1991)

Sleep, little Jesus, my treasure, my blessing,

While Mary comforts Thee, tender, caressing.

Lullaby, little one, in loving arms lying,

Guarding my darling and stilling Thy crying.

~ Polish Lullaby
(translated by Henry W. Simon)
from my mom's Treasury of Christmas Songs and Carols,
which I posted about previously here

Please listen to Edyta Górniak tenderly whisper-sing this lullaby in Polish, 

called 'Lulajże Jezuniu', here

 and-

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Used Beauty

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There were days in the 1970s when I was a young married woman that dried flowers were very hip. You could go to a fancy gift shop and buy a beautiful cachepot of dried purple larkspur and status, faded roses, and baby’s breath. I loved them, but I didn't buy them. If I was given fresh flowers for a special occasion, when they began to droop, I hung them upside down to dry them, and then arranged them in vessels around the house. I buried delicate heads of Queen Anne’s lace in silica sand to remove moisture for a few days and preserve them for mounting on cards and decoupage.

Then suddenly one day in the late eighties or early nineties I read somewhere someone challenging the idea of putting out dead flowers on tabletops or walls. “I don’t want anything dead decorating my house,” she wrote. “I only want fresh flowers.”

It didn’t occur to me at the time that I didn’t agree with her. Dried flowers were fading from vogue. Carolyne Roehm was publishing large gorgeous picture books on how to arrange fresh flowers, and I was buying them or receiving them as gifts. When Kirstie Alley kicked her cocaine habit, she decided to spend the same amount of money that she had spent weekly on cocaine on fresh flowers. Elton John had two full time staffers just arranging fresh flowers for the rooms of his mansion. At the house where we lived then, we had a dozen pink and fuchsia peony bushes, and I cut some of them for vases. It was a “free” luxury and added life to our rooms.

I spend little time cutting or arranging flowers now, and I’d rather not receive purchased flowers from a florist for a special occasion, feeling that the flower industry is a gigantic waste of resources, shipping them all the way from the Netherlands so I can have them on my table. Here on the farm, hydrangeas in front of the green barn blossom like fine Battenburg lace every spring and stay moist and lovely most of the summer. When the lush petals begin to dry, I think they are still as beautiful, if not even more so, and I know that soon snow will fall and accentuate the shapes and splay of the dried heads.

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What Matters Most

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"What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire"

- Title borrowed from the title of Charles Bukowski’s 1999 book of poems, 

after reading a poem of his in The Writer’s Almanac

In the dark of morning the day begins

with another couple of logs snugged into the

cast iron box of the wood stove

after stoking the night’s starry embers.

If the embers aren’t first stoked with the brass poker

the logs take much longer to ignite.

I open the news pages on my laptop

and on one I read about the long iron rod of rape

by Congolese men who enslave 11-year-olds

to mine tin, tungsten, tantalum

the metals used to magically ignite this screen I read.

And just so, in the comfort of my red leather chair

just then, the logs take fire. I hear

the knock as the metal expands, I see the shimmering

orange flames behind the creosoted glass

crisscrossed with a pattern of black iron

and I see that the fire is caged, a tiger

burning bright, all the sun’s heat reborn right here

in my own dark cave, working for me,

warming me, controlled by me, Imagine!

just with a poke of my brass rod

~ Ruth M.

Read Ashley Judd's devastating article about conflict minerals, which are mined in the Democratic Republic of Congo so you and I can have cell phones and laptops, titled Costs of Convenience here.

Read what Business for Social Responsibility said about conflict minerals here.

Read what Steve Jobs said about conflict minerals and his industry here.

Read one take on the Financial Reform bill in the U.S. that includes legislation about conflict minerals and disclosure here.

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