For this Christmas, the spirit, the essence: loving and giving, giving and loving. Moment to moment ’til it’s another year and another. The cyclic fuels us, stills us, peace all around. The tapestry of our lives held in the wheel. The portal of light opens, reveals yet again who what we are, where we are– connected. The fabric of our being an act of integration into the divine. the human. the harmonious way. Even the chaos finds every cell within us, finite and limitless aligning to say once more, Merry Christmas. The truth waiting in the peace.
To Jesus on His Birthday, by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
For this your mother sweated in the cold,
For this you bled upon the bitter tree:
A yard of tinsel ribbon bought and sold;
A paper wreath; a day at home for me.
The merry bells ring out, the people kneel;
Up goes the man of God before the crowd;
With voice of honey and with eyes of steel
He drones your humble gospel to the proud.
Nobody listens. Less than the wind that blows
Are all your words to us you died to save.
O Prince of Peace! O Sharon’s dewy Rose!
How mute you lie within your vaulted grave.
The stone the angel rolled away with tears
Is back upon your mouth these thousand years.