Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

This book is part of our haphazard exploration of Newbery Award winners and runner-ups. Walk Two Moons won the award in 1995. Literature seems to go in cycles. There was a time in the 1970s when it seemed like books were sad or troubling, and then again in the 1990s. This book leans in that direction, although it isn’t nearly as dark as The Giver, which was pretty triggering for me given my background. Walk Two Moons isn’t creepy, actually, just filled with, as the main character puts it, “the birds of sadness.” That said, despite the tragedy, grief, trauma, and conflicted emotions, the book is also full of hope and love. 

 

I am kind of hesitant to give much of a plot summary, as some of the really important details aren’t revealed until late in the book. I’ll try to avoid any major spoilers.

The book is divided into three narratives, which are interwoven. The first is almost a framing story: Salamanca, aka Sal, a 13 year old girl, is traveling with her grandparents on an epic road trip from Ohio to Idaho. Sal’s mother, after suffering a traumatic miscarriage and hysterectomy, has questioned her identity, and taken a road trip to see a cousin in Idaho. She has not returned. Sal dances around the reason why until near the end of the book. While on the trip, Sal tells us the story of her parents and her former life on a farm in Kentucky. She tells her grandparents the story of her life in Ohio, where her dad has moved with her after her mom’s departure. That story centers around her friend Phoebe, whose own family is coming apart at the seams. Each of these threads is unfolded as the book goes along. Sal essentially has to process her own emotions and experiences through each thread.

One of Sal’s discoveries is how different marriages work - or don’t. Phoebe’s mom is uptight and conventional, pouring herself into being the perfect wife and mother. But her family doesn’t really appreciate her, so she is dying inside, as Sal can see. Neither parent is horrible, but they are dysfunctional, and can’t seem to really connect. In some ways, this mirrors her own parents, although they have different personalities. Her mom is a bit of a free spirit, but feels she cannot live up to the perfection of her husband, who is kind, gentle, and thoughtful. Basically two good people who are too insecure to be truly happy.

In contrast are a couple of other marriages. Sal’s friend Mary Lou’s parents preside over a somewhat chaotic and low income household, but the home is filled with love. They embrace anyone who comes their way, including their nephew Ben, whose mother is in a mental institution. The other is that of Sal’s paternal grandparents - the ones she is taking the trip with. They are goofy, eccentric (they once got arrested for borrowing a wheel off a police car, among other capers), and not quite normal, but they are, 50 years later, still madly in love with each other.

Throughout the book, it seems that Creech contrasts the straitlaced, uptight sorts with the free spirits. Apparently, this is one element she drew from her own life. (The road trip is also drawn from her experiences. As is her complicated relationship with her mother.) I rather suspect she had relatives who fell on both sides of this issue, and perhaps struggled with where she would fit in.

Overall, a well written book. My kids found the humorous sections fun, and didn’t seem to mind the sadder stuff. Your mileage may vary.

The Girl Who Drank the Moon by Kelly Barnhill

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

There has been a trend over the last, say, 40 or so years, to turn tropes on their heads. One of these has been to repurpose - to redeem, so to speak - the Witch. No longer a byword for evil of the worst kind, a menace to children, in league with the devil, she is at minimum more complex and human. In many cases, she is the greatest force for good in a community.

There is a lot of truth to this transformation. An honest analysis of the history of witch burning - and let’s call it what it is: murder - reveals that “witches” generally fell into two categories. The one was the elderly woman with no relatives to defend or avenge her. She was viewed as a drain on the community resources. Rather than support her (say, through the poor laws), it was easier to imagine her malignant and murder her. Not a particularly savory human trait on display there.

The second sort of historical “witch” is even more intriguing. Throughout history, there have been women who refused to kowtow to the patriarchy, who served as the physicians of the community, healing with pharmaceutical herbs, providing contraceptives (and yes, abortifacients too - this was all women’s work for millennia), delivering babies, and so on. One can trace these sorts of women (very often called “wise women”) from the dawn of human history to modern times. The Florence Nightingale sorts who stood up to chauvinist doctors and provided far better care than they did. Although nursing is no longer a solely female profession, it is still the nurses - not the doctors - who do the hard work of medical care.

Sadly, the “wise women” always existed in uncomfortable tension with the patriarchal powers of society. So, from time to time, one would be murdered as a “witch.” That way, the balance of power could be maintained, and the healers would live in fear, and thus stay in their place. Several of these women are mentioned in Uppity Women of Medieval Times - success and popularity were dangerous to women. 

I start off with this, because The Girl Who Drank the Moon is one of those books in which a witch is a healer. (Although the best, for my money, is still Terry Pratchett’s Tiffany Aching series - they are a great crash course in ethics for kids.) This book is also quite political - in a good way - without being particularly didactic.

The setting is a rather dystopian society. The Protectorate is a city with a problem. There is a witch living in the forest, and she will destroy the city unless a baby is left for her in the woods each year - presumably for her to devour. This belief is fostered by superstitious stories passed from generation to generation. But it is also enforced by the powers that be: the all-male council of elders, and the all-female quasi-military force. (They are kind of a cross between nuns and ninjas…) So, every year, the youngest child in the city is brutally ripped from his or her parents, and left to die in the forest. Thus, the witch is appeased, and the city lives another year.

But this is not, of course, the reality. There actually IS a witch, but she is rather puzzled by the whole “abandoned baby in the forest” thing. She comes every year, takes the baby, and places it for adoption with a family on the other side of the mountains - communities for which she serves as healer and therapist. Sure, she probably should have inquired as to why they were abandoned, but the Protectorate was obscured in a fog, both literal, and magical (a fog of sorrow.)

This goes on for some time - 500 or so years - before things change. First, Xan (the witch), takes a shine to a particular baby, Luna, and accidentally feeds her moonlight instead of starlight, which “enmagicks” her. At the same time, Antain, a young man who is expected to eventually take his place as an elder, is traumatized by Luna’s abduction. Her mother refuses to peacefully surrender the child, instead going mad in the aftermath. She is locked in a tower, and Antain is haunted by the scene. He investigates, and is cut on his face by a flock of paper birds created by the mad woman. He eventually marries, and his child in turn is due to be sacrificed.

In the meantime, Luna has grown up raised by Xan, a primeval swamp monster named Glurg (who is a sensitive poet, and may be both one with creation and its creator - it’s a paradox to say the least), and a pocket sized dragon. Xan locks her magic inside her, lest she hurt someone or herself (which is a legitimate fear), until she turns 13. In that way, Luna’s discovery of her magic self is connected with puberty - and is just as awkward.

As the book proceeds, the mystery of the past unfolds. All of the characters - not just Luna - has some part of their memories locked away. Their sorrow, in particular, cannot be recalled. As the fog lifts - literally and figuratively - a past tragedy is remembered. And it becomes clear that the real power behind the Protectorate is a “sorrow eater,” the evil counterpart to the Witch, who lives on the pain of others.

There are some pretty heady political lessons here. How does oppression work? Why do people tolerate it? How is blind allegiance created? How are people prevented by fear and violence from thinking for themselves? And, of course, the necessity of the good people of the world to challenge not just the status quo, but the powers of hate.

There are some interesting things about this book that I think make it better than average. First, the author is pretty good about showing, rather than telling. The beliefs of the Protectorate are revealed through a series of “fairy tales” told to children. These open the book, and recur throughout at crucial junctures. Also in this vein, the author allows the full horror of the child sacrifice to be felt. Nothing graphic, but it is clear that the Elders believe that the child is eaten by wild animals - and that they perpetuate the sacrifices because they know it maintains them in power.

I also appreciated that the book is told from various points of view. And they are all sympathetic in some way. That includes the point of view of Sister Ignatia, the villain. Barnhill makes it clear that she too has her hidden pain, and came to be who she is because her own trauma.

That said, it is the trajectories of Sister Ignatia and the chief Elder that are by far the most chilling part of the story. Both of them are so wedded to their power that they cannot, even at the end when their powers have been stripped, repent. They end their days in confinement, cut off from nearly all human contact, their pride having sentenced them to their own private hells. They cannot even admit that they were wrong, which is one thing that the better inhabitants of the book are willing to do. I do not pretend to be an expert on the afterlife, but this kind of matches my own (tentatively held) belief: there are many who, given the choice of repenting and apologizing as a condition of eternal life in the presence of God, will instead choose annihilation rather than bend. (For many from my own time and country, they will choose to not exist over having to be equals with brown-skinned people - I’m looking at you, Phyllis Schlafly…) I say this, not because of theology, but because of psychology. (And yes, I think C. S. Lewis was highly perceptive about this.)

One final thing merits some praise for this book. The ending is set up perfectly for the good people of the story to exact justice. Or revenge, perhaps. But they don’t. It is enough to stop the bad people from hurting everyone else. Mercy and grace are extended to all. Even the chief Elder and Sister Ignatia. But they cannot accept that grace, and choose their own annihilation. At the end of the story, I was strongly reminded of the ending of Les Miserables. Javert too cannot accept grace, because he refuses to extend it. And, like so many of Victor Hugo’s heroes, the heroes of this book become so much more heroic because of the grace they extend.

I found this book fascinating. Those who know the Western fairy tale tradition will find all kinds of “Easter Eggs” within the story. Likewise for those who know their Bibles. Obviously, Fundies will clutch their pearls at the idea of the opening of the Gospel of John being repurposed as an explanation as to how the primordial Chaos (the “bog monster”) became the world and the creator and the poem and the poet and everything. But for those not so obsessed with doctrinal purity, this mythology will, like fairytales and myths and allegories and parables around the world and throughout history, be another way of thinking about truth - a poetic and figurative representation of some deeper truth about reality - and ourselves.

Overall, a better than average book, with memorable characters, a good story, and thoughtful explorations of deeper truths. 

***

Oh yeah, this is the Newbery Award winner for 2017.

***

I first read this poem in high school, and it has always stuck with me.

After the Battle by Victor Hugo

My father, that hero with the sweetest smile,
followed by a single hussar whom he loved above all others
for his great bravery and his great height,
was riding, the evening after a battle,
across the field covered with the dead on whom night was falling.
He thought he heard a weak noise  in the shadow.
It was a Spaniard from the routed army
who was bleeding, dragging himself by the road.
groaning, broken, ashen, and more than half dead,
and who said, "Drink! Drink, for pity's sake!"
My father, moved, handed to his faithful hussar
a canteen of rum that hung from his saddle,
and said, "Here, give the poor wounded man something to drink."
Suddenly, at the moment when the hussar bent
leaning over him, the man, a kind of Moor,
seized a pistol that he was still gripping,
and aimed at my father's forehead crying "Caramba!"
The bullet passed so near that his hat fell off
and his horse shied backwards.
"All the same give him something to drink," said my father.

 

Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

I had a couple of cases down south this month, one in Los Angeles and one in Indio, and that meant a solid 14ish hours of driving. I keep a list of books I want to read (or listen to) - you really don’t want to know how long it has grown in the last few years despite my reading 50-60 books a year. This book was fairly close in length to my expected driving time, and my library had it in stock.

Colum McCann is originally from Ireland, but now lives in the United States. He has written a half dozen books or so, but it is this one which won a National Book Award for fiction. (So, if I was doing one of those “read a book in these arbitrary categories” challenge this year, put this one down in that category.)

Let the Great World Spin has both a framing story, and a unifying event that ties together the many - nine to be exact - related episodes. In addition, there are a prologue and two short sections relating the framing story, and an epilogue that ties up the loose ends. These episodes are each told from the point of view of a different character. If you count the three framing episodes and the epilogue, that equals eleven different narrators telling different parts of what is essentially the same story.

The framing story is a real life event. On August 7th, 1974, Philippe Petit broke into the nearly complete World Trade Center (remember that?) and walked a tightrope between the twin towers. This event helps shape the characters in the story, and also serves as a metaphor within the story itself. We are all on the brink of falling, and yet we must walk on.

This is a book with adult themes (in the true sense of the word.) It also has a good bit of realistic and brutal language, and its share of violence and unpleasantness. So, definitely not for the kids, but not gratuitous by any means. It is both a desperately sad book, and yet a very hopeful book. It is realistic yet idealistic, unflinching yet optimistic. The characters are fully human (and excellently written) and, except for a few minor characters which are caricatures, decent and likeable - something that is not always the case in modern fiction. You really want the best for the characters, and mourn when catastrophe strikes them.

And catastrophe is the central story of the book. The whole thing turns on a police raid on a group of prostitutes, the subsequent arraignment, and the death of one along with the radical priest (who is the central character, even though his point of view is never seen) in a traffic accident. The lives of the characters who tell the story are irrevocably changed by these events, for good and evil - and both together.

The story opens as told by Ciarin Corrigan, the brother of the priest. The boys were born in Ireland, and Ciarin follows John “Corrie” to New York City, where the events take place. Corrie has continued his ministry which was formerly to the drunks of Dublin with the prostitutes near his apartment in the projects. He brings them coffee, and lets them use his bathroom. He supports himself by driving a van for a nursing home. Corrie is a good man, it is clear, but he is deeply conflicted. He is, truth be told, following literally in the steps of Christ, making a life with those on the margins of society. But he is full of doubts. His faith is shaky, and his purpose not as true as he would wish. And then, he falls in love with a Guatemalan nurse and thus becomes torn between the halves of his heart. Between his vows and his desire.

Ciarin tells the story up until the accident, at which time the narrative switches completely to Claire, a wealthy Southern woman married to a Jewish judge. Their only son has been killed in Vietnam, and she is deeply grieving. (He is too, in his own quiet and awkward way.) She sees an ad in the Village Voice seeking other women who have lost children in the war, and ends up joining an informal support group of five women. The book tells primarily of the event she hosts at her apartment on Park Avenue, a delightful set piece of awkwardness, trauma, stress - and also decent people behaving decently despite grief. This section of the book could have been dull as heck, but instead is simply brilliant writing.

Midway through the breakfast, the narrative switches abruptly again, this time to Lara, a young artist who has been living life in the fast lane with her husband, also an artist and cocaine aficionado. Coming back from an all night bender in their classic 1927 Pontiac, they clip the rear of Corrie’s van, setting in motion the events of the fatal accident. She sees the young woman, Jazzlyn, ejected from the van and crushed on the pavement, and she is consumed with guilt. Her husband’s less than appropriate reaction leads them to break up, and her to seek out what happened to the priest. She ends up attending Jazzlyn’s funeral, meeting Ciarin, and becoming involved in the story as a result. 

 Because of course we need a picture of a 1927 Pontiac.

After a brief interlude from the point of view of Petit, the narration is taken up by Fernando, a young teen who ends up capturing a picture of the Petit on the wire with an airplane passing overhead. (The character is fictional, the picture is real.) We then hear briefly from a young hacker who, with his friends, dials a pay phone in Manhattan and talks the bystanders who answer into describing the walk as it happens. 

The next section goes back to the main narrative, and is told by Tillie, Jazzlyn’s mother, who is also a prostitute and a drug addict. This is a heartwrenching and exceedingly gritty tale, with a dark ending.

Next, the narrative switches to Claire’s husband, Solomon, who tells of both the arraignments of Tillie and Jazzlyn and a bit of Petit’s arraignment on the same day. (One of the nice things about this book is that the courtroom scene is actually done correctly. After all the ludicrous descriptions you can find in books and movies, it is nice to read one that captures the mundane nature of the ordinary arraignment, and the frustration of judges in dealing with recalcitrant defendants. My applause, Mr. McCann.)

The next narrator to take up the story is Adelita, Corrie’s flame, who describe falling in love with (and eventually making love to) Corrie, and her response to the tragedy.

Finally, we hear from Gloria. She is one of the mothers in Claire’s support group, and the only African American member. At the end of the breakfast, Claire makes a major faux pas and Gloria walks off rightly offended. However, she is mugged, and returns to Claire’s apartment, and the two end up becoming friends. Gloria will then end up (through another stroke of fate) taking on the care of Jazzlyn’s two daughters after her death.

The epilogue is told by one of the daughters thirty years later, and the loose ends are wrapped up. (While I appreciated that the epilogue existed, it is the weakest part of the book, with some trite characters and easy ways out. It might have been better if it had just told what happened, rather than trying to insert new characters and events.)

The character of Corrie is loosely based on the real life priest, Daniel Berrigan, best known (depending on your level of nerdiness) for his participation in the Vietnam protests and part of the Catonsville Nine - or from Paul Simon’s song. The characters do not share biographical details, however, but more a philosophical connection. Both are “radical” priests who struggle with faith and who minister to the rougher city denizens without judgment.

Corrie is the central character, as I noted, even though we only know what he is thinking from the words he says to others - and from his actions. Many of these observations were quite interesting.

“Corrigan told me once that Christ was quite easy to understand. He went where He was supposed to go. He stayed where He was needed. He took little or nothing along, a pair of sandals, a bit of a shirt, a few odds and ends to stave off the loneliness. He never rejected the world. If He had rejected it, He would have been rejecting mystery. And if He rejected mystery, He would have been rejecting faith.”

“What Corrigan wanted was a fully believable God, one you could find in the grime of the everyday...he consoled himself with the fact that, in the real world, when he looked closely into the darkness he might find the presence of a light, damaged and bruised, but a little light all the same. He wanted, quite simply, for the world to be a better place, and he was in the habit of hoping for it.”

These days, I find myself thinking these thoughts as well. How difficult it is to see Christ in the American church right now, and how little relevance their treasured doctrines seem to have to the people Christ spent his time with. How precious little any of it has to do with loving our neighbor.

Perhaps the quote that intrigued me the most was Adelita’s memory of Corrie’s statement that there was “no better faith than wounded faith.” I rather hope it is true. And I feel in many ways that my own faith is more real to me now than ever, maybe even because of the the challenges and the, yes, wounding it has undergone in the last few years. Corrie wrestles with God, as do the other characters - particularly Tillie, who would like to give Him a good talking to. Fate, God, chance, or however you look at it, isn’t fair, understandable, or benign. Crap happens, and we are left, like Job or Qohelet, to try to make sense of it all or go crazy.  

On a lighter note, I should mention one quote from Tilly, when she tries to seduce Ciarin. “You won’t seen anything this good until there are lawyers in heaven.” We can’t get no respect…

And one more, describing the aging judiciary: “Few folicles on the oracles.” 

Tilly has an interesting secret, though, that bears mentioning. An early client never slept with her (although he paid her), but preferred that she sit, naked, and read him the poems of 13th Century Persian poet Rumi. I have no desire or intent to avail myself of a prostitute, but there is something kind of epic about that whole picture. I haven’t read a whole lot of Rumi, I’ll admit, although he was apparently wildly popular in the 1960s and 70s. See below for a selection. McCann threads lines from Rumi throughout the book, and his presence is a ghost in the narrative.

Poetry is connected to this book in another way.  The title itself comes from a couplet in Tennyson’s Locksley Hall:

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range,

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

McCann ends the book with a poetic line of his own:

“The world spins. We stumble on. It is enough.”

This could perhaps be the theme of the book itself. The characters stumble on. They are afraid of love (as Lara says), in part because they have lost so much. They all mourn something. But in the end, love is still worth it, and the characters know this, and risk for this idea. They choose to love, to be vulnerable, to accept the pain, to embrace it even, as the necessary experience which makes them alive.

This book was a good read, with outstanding and compelling writing, some of the best characters I have seen in a modern novel, and enough thoughtfulness that the book sticks in your mind afterward.

***

Note on the audiobook: The version I listened to is by Recorded Books, and featured eleven different readers - one for each character. Each had his or her own voice, accent or dialect, and cadence. A rather brilliant use of the audio format - definitely look for this version if you listen to it.

***

A little Rumi (translated by Jonathan Star):

Gone to the Unseen

At last you have departed and gone to the Unseen.

What marvelous route did you take from this world?

Beating your wings and feathers,

you broke free from this cage.

Rising up to the sky

you attained the world of the soul.

You were a prized falcon trapped by an Old Woman.

Then you heard the drummer's call

and flew beyond space and time.

As a lovesick nightingale, you flew among the owls.

Then came the scent of the rosegarden

and you flew off to meet the Rose.

The wine of this fleeting world

caused your head to ache.

Finally you joined the tavern of Eternity.

Like an arrow, you sped from the bow

and went straight for the bull's eye of bliss.

This phantom world gave you false signs

But you turned from the illusion

and journeyed to the land of truth.

You are now the Sun -

what need have you for a crown?

You have vanished from this world -

what need have you to tie your robe?

I've heard that you can barely see your soul.

But why look at all? -

yours is now the Soul of Souls!

O heart, what a wonderful bird you are.

Seeking divine heights,

Flapping your wings,

you smashed the pointed spears of your enemy.

The flowers flee from Autumn, but not you -

You are the fearless rose

that grows amidst the freezing wind.

Pouring down like the rain of heaven

you fell upon the rooftop of this world.

Then you ran in every direction

and escaped through the drain spout . . .

Now the words are over

and the pain they bring is gone.

Now you have gone to rest

in the arms of the Beloved.

So beautiful.

Christmas Poems 2016

Last year, I wrote a post about this time wherein I selected four contrasting poems about Christmas. It was well received, so I thought I might try again this year. In hunting around, I found four poems, which all happen to have been written in the 20th Century. Each in its own way, addresses a feeling of being alienated, out of place, and ambivalent about the future and the season. Earlier this month, I posted some Christmas carols that fit with this feeling that has troubled me about the times we live in, and particularly the way so many people - including ones I know - have ended up tying themselves in theological and moral knots trying to excuse what they once condemned, and explain why “love your neighbor as yourself” doesn’t apply to people like immigrants and low income people. These poems are much more personal than the carols, particular the three first ones. The fourth takes the feeling and makes it global and aspirational. 

I have many times bemoaned the fact that poetry appears to be very much out of style these days. Certainly, I have friends who appreciate it, but many more roll their eyes. This is a shame, because it is in poetry (as in music) that the inexpressible is expressed. By not saying things bluntly and literally, but through allusion, rhythm, metaphor, and elision and other poetic devices, we ultimately paint a more accurate portrait of truth.

I’ll start with Ogden Nash, who I quoted last year as well. I ran across this one in the collection I reviewed recently, The Private Dining Room, and thought it fit with the theme.

I have lived most of my life (except for a brief few months as a toddler) in California. Most of that has been in fairly warm places, where it may freeze occasionally, but there isn’t really “weather,” the way the songs tend to describe Christmas. Nash was born in New York, but lived in Savannah for a while as a kid, and must have remembered the strange feeling of Christmas time in a warm place.

Merry Christmas You-All

or

Who Forgot Savannah?

by Ogden Nash

The men who draws the Christmas cards, dear,

They must have igloos in their yards, dear.

They lives in Labrador or Maine, dear.

They all knows how to harness reindeer.

They puts on snowshoes and galoshes,

And breaks the ice before they washes.

The men who write the Christmas rhymes,

They all inhabit frigid climes.

Their roofs is fluffy, I have heared,

With snow like Santa Claus’s beard.

Icicles decorate their nose,

And chilblains nips their mistletoes.

I loves the artists and the bards

Who makes the pretty Christmas cards,

I loves their winter scenes and such,

But still I thinks they don’t know much,

For Christmas wanders back and forth

And travels South as well as North.

I’m glad our Christmas sun arises

On buttercups and butterflieses,

Our Christmas carol sounds as sweet

As if our ears was raw with sleet,

Our hearts is gay with Christmas mirth

Like on the colder parts of earth,

So cross the Mason-Dixon Line

And be my Christmas Valentine.

I imagine my friends who reside in the Southern Hemisphere experience even more dissonance than I do, with Christmas falling in summer.

Nash points out, however, that Christmas spirit isn’t about the externals, but about what is in our hearts.

The next poem is by T. S. Eliot, whose poetry I have come to appreciate much more in my 30s and now 40s than I ever did when I was a teen. I wrote about the Four Quartets, which seem to be as relevant to the times we find ourselves in as they were at the start of World War Two, when they were written.

“Journey Of The Magi” was written in 1927, as part of a series of poems titled Ariel Poems, by various poets, illustrated, and published as a series. Eliot had just converted to Anglo-Catholic Christianity (yes, I had to look that one up), and had begun to write poems with a more religious theme. This poem was one of them.

What is fascinating is that this one, despite being about Christmas, is every bit as bleak as “The Hollow Men,” another poem that seems more timely than ever. The mage, reflecting on the journey remembers not the joy of the meeting nor the hope. Instead, he considers the hardship of the journey itself, and the growing dread as he realizes that the world has irrevocably changed, and he has lost his bearings. As others have pointed out, the narrator of this poem has a lot in common with that of “The Hollow Men.”

Other interesting things about the poem are the multiple allusions to biblical themes and motifs. The white horse (of Revelation), the three trees on a hill, pieces of silver, wineskins, leaves on the lintel. The first five lines come (adapted) from an Elizabethan era sermon, and Eliot deliberately refers to Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach” as well. With Eliot, it is hard to find any picture that isn’t symbolic, so I am sure I have missed a few more.

I read this poem some years ago, and remember being struck by the juxtaposition of birth and death, with the fear of change, and the inability to adapt. This too seems pertinent to our times, when both political and religious leaders preach the return to the injustices of the past as the path to utopia. The world has changed, and things can never be the same again, no matter how much the rules of the old systems wish to ignore the change. Just as paganism, superstition, and polytheism were unable to maintain their power after that first Christmas, so too feminism, the Enlightenment view of human rights, and the age of science have changed things. The genie will not go back in the bottle, and all the wishing in the world won’t change that.

So too, the response to Christ by the reactionaries came in two forms. For those taking the aggressive approach, the solution was “crucify him.” For the magi as Eliot portrays them, it is the passive wish for their own death.

I myself find resonance with two ideas here. First is that I too feel as if the world has shifted beneath my feet. The world that I grew up in, the post Civil Rights Movement era, in which nearly everyone I knew at least paid lip service to racial equality and treated women with respect is gone. The KKK is back with a vengeance, and apparently you can brag about sexually assaulting women without consequence - particularly from religious people, who will give you a free pass if you are in their political party.

But the other one is one of hope, that even in the dark hour, when a birth and a death look so very much alike, a singular event, one that came as a surprise to everyone, even those who expected it, could change the world in profound ways. “Peace on earth, goodwill to men, on whom His favor rests” isn’t just something we sing, but an idea that can - and will - continue to change the world.  

Journey Of The Magi 

by T. S. Eliot

                       

'A cold coming we had of it,

Just the worst time of the year

For a journey, and such a journey:

The ways deep and the weather sharp,

The very dead of winter.'

And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,

Lying down in the melting snow.

There were times we regretted

The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,

And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and grumbling

And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,

And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,

And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly

And the villages dirty and charging high prices:

A hard time we had of it.

At the end we preferred to travel all night,

Sleeping in snatches,

With the voices singing in our ears, saying

That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,

Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;

With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,

And three trees on the low sky,

And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.

Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,

Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,

And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.

But there was no information, and so we continued

And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon

Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,

And I would do it again, but set down

This set down

This: were we led all that way for

Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,

We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,

But had thought they were different; this Birth was

Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.

We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,

But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,

With an alien people clutching their gods.

I should be glad of another death.                       

I have mentioned a few times that Robert Frost is my favorite poet (although not by a large margin). I discovered him in my childhood, and every time I read something he wrote, I am again amazed by his skill and depth of thought. (If you want to read my posts on him, they are here and here.)

“Christmas Trees” is one I was not that familiar with, but discovered in looking for Christmas poems in general. Frost was a master of the long-form, blank verse narrative poem, and this is an excellent example.

Christmas Trees

by Robert Frost

(A Christmas Circular Letter)

The city had withdrawn into itself

And left at last the country to the country;

When between whirls of snow not come to lie

And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove

A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,

Yet did in country fashion in that there

He sat and waited till he drew us out

A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.

He proved to be the city come again

To look for something it had left behind

And could not do without and keep its Christmas.

He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;

My woods—the young fir balsams like a place

Where houses all are churches and have spires.

I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.

I doubt if I was tempted for a moment

To sell them off their feet to go in cars

And leave the slope behind the house all bare,

Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.

I’d hate to have them know it if I was.

Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except

As others hold theirs or refuse for them,

Beyond the time of profitable growth,

The trial by market everything must come to.

I dallied so much with the thought of selling.

Then whether from mistaken courtesy

And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether

From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said,

“There aren’t enough to be worth while.”

“I could soon tell how many they would cut,

You let me look them over.”

                                                    “You could look.

But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”

Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close

That lop each other of boughs, but not a few

Quite solitary and having equal boughs

All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,

Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,

With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”

I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.

We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,

And came down on the north. He said, “A thousand.”

“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”

He felt some need of softening that to me:

“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”

Then I was certain I had never meant

To let him have them. Never show surprise!

But thirty dollars seemed so small beside

The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents

(For that was all they figured out apiece),

Three cents so small beside the dollar friends

I should be writing to within the hour

Would pay in cities for good trees like those,

Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools

Could hang enough on to pick off enough.

A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!

Worth three cents more to give away than sell,

As may be shown by a simple calculation.

Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.

I can’t help wishing I could send you one,

In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

It’s just a few lines long, and yet, Frost brings a whole world to light. The narrator has his moral dilemma, his moment of hesitation in the light of possible gain. One is left with the discomfiting feeling that had the price been higher, he might (despite his protest) have given in. And that would have been a shame to him and a disappointment to us.

Frost also contrasts the city values with the country values - at least those of his time. Things have changed a heck of a lot since this was written. Now, I am far more likely to find someone from the small town or country who things that conservation is a crock and that everything should be for sale. (In fact, this election is a great example of that. It isn’t the party of the cities that wants to privatize everything it can and put a price on everything else…) As Frost pointedly notes, it isn’t the country landowner who profits - it’s the middlemen.

I love that the narrator realizes just how rich he is, to have a thousand of his own Christmas trees. My favorite lines are these:

A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!

Worth three cents more to give away than sell,

As may be shown by a simple calculation.

It is a fantastic paradox: three cents more to give away than sell. It seems backwards, but he realizes that the three cents wouldn’t enrich, but impoverish him.

In an era when so many seem to have embraced “winning” and “dealmaking” as virtues, and seem poised to gut as much of the public sector (that is, what we all own together for the good of society), Frost stands as a contrast. He is alienated from from the “everything is for sale” ethic. Though he is tempted, he stands firm. I am reminded of a poem by Wordsworth, who likewise loved nature and sought mutual benefit over blind pursuit of profit.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

Frost’s poem thus is one of both alienation and hope. There are those left who will not bow the knee to this god.

The final poem is by Maya Angelou, who I didn’t really discover until I was an adult. Even now, I am not as familiar with her works as I should be - something I hope to remedy. (Blame my bias against moderns. My natural tendency is to go with classics, whether music or literature.) Anyway, I ran across this poem, and thought it a good one to finish with. It is a marvelously hopeful poem, one where hope and peace can overcome hate and strife.

Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem

by Maya Angelou

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes

And lightning rattles the eaves of our houses.

Flood waters await us in our avenues.

Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche

Over unprotected villages.

The sky slips low and grey and threatening.

We question ourselves.

What have we done to so affront nature?

We worry God.

Are you there? Are you there really?

Does the covenant you made with us still hold?

Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters,

Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope

And singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air.

The world is encouraged to come away from rancor,

Come the way of friendship.

It is the Glad Season.

Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner.

Flood waters recede into memory.

Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us

As we make our way to higher ground.

Hope is born again in the faces of children

It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets.

Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening all things,

Even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors.

In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.

At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.

We listen carefully as it gathers strength.

We hear a sweetness.

The word is Peace.

It is loud now. It is louder.

Louder than the explosion of bombs.

We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence.

It is what we have hungered for.

Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace.

A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.

Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas.

We beckon this good season to wait a while with us.

We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come.

Peace.

Come and fill us and our world with your majesty.

We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian,

Implore you, to stay a while with us.

So we may learn by your shimmering light

How to look beyond complexion and see community.

It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time.

On this platform of peace, we can create a language

To translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.

At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the Birth of Jesus Christ

Into the great religions of the world.

We jubilate the precious advent of trust.

We shout with glorious tongues at the coming of hope.

All the earth’s tribes loosen their voices

To celebrate the promise of Peace.

We, Angels and Mortals, Believers and Non-Believers,

Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.

Peace. We look at our world and speak the word aloud.

Peace. We look at each other, then into ourselves

And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation.

Peace, My Brother.

Peace, My Sister.

Peace, My Soul.

There are two lines in particular that I love. The first is this:

Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening all things,

Even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors.

This is the hope that we need, one that can and indeed will overcome the hate which has been breeding in the dark corners of our nation and is now flaunting its political triumph. But the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

The second line is this one:

It is what we have hungered for.

Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace.

A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.

Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

Not just the absence of war. Not just the absence of conflict and hatred. No, true peace, which is a harmony of spirit. I think this is what those of my acquaintance that don’t get the Black Lives Matter movement are missing. It can’t just be some vague “I don’t hate you” that is needed, it is an actual harmony of spirit where we experience the pain and fear and devastation of others rather than dismissing or ignoring it. True peace requires security and safety as well. I am reminded again of what my pastor has said many times about marriage. It isn’t enough to avoid divorce (the absence of war, if you will): one must build a marriage, a “harmony of spirit,” as Angelou puts it. And peace with our fellow man requires this as well. Indeed, I believe my own faith requires it. “Love your neighbor” is more than just “don’t harm your neighbor” - although that is included. (And is one that so many seem to have forgotten.) Love, as with peace, requires building that harmony of spirit, and unity of purpose.

This Christmas, whether we feel the chill of a winter’s snow or not, regardless of our anxiety about a changed and changing world, may we avoid selling what is irreplaceable for a piece of silver, but instead seek that true peace on earth, and good will toward men, particularly those outside of our tribe.