26 November 2021
Holiday Affair: Pace Yourself
I suppose this Christmas season really started sometime last year, during the covid-cancelled Holiday Season. Which started sometime around Easter, or Memorial Day, definitely by 4 July of 2020.
The patriots in our nation are outraged, mildly, at the cancel non-culture in our midst. I say “outraged mildly” because there are millions amongst us who have lived through the sleazily unjust, trash-filled partisan, Bubba-bloviated 1990s. The PC/Cancel crowd were just getting going then.
But that “mindset”, if you will, because such intolerant arses have lost whatever minds they had, dates back to Biblical times. The Old Testament is filled with turn-offs to religion because of the murderous approach to living created by sinners trying, or not trying, to fulfill the laws of God. Witness Cain and Abel, the original cutthroat sibling-rivalry, for starters.
Seeking to find out, and then to follow, the will of God is a much better path to feeling the spirit of the Ineffable, than is taking smarmy deceitful cover as His Shepherd. We’ve all observed the acting-out of the twisted, sick wills of the heathens, here, and abroad, trying to impose their wicked emptiness on anyone of the Judeo-Christian faith. The fates of the politician, and the politicized socialist dolt of a pope (to whom he sucks up), will likely not be heavenly for those con artists of the soul.
I recall, during the spring of 2005, when the probable replacement for Pope John Paul II was being rumored. The gasped shock from the Snews was that the next pope would actually be a Roman Catholic!
The globalist commies finally had their way and their say in 2013; and I do wonder how frantically desperate the nation-destroyers must have been, are still are, to desecrate so publicly an institution that has known scandal and the revolution of Martin Luther and his 95 Theses.
The painting by Julius Hübner, of the Düsseldorf School during the 19th century, sensationalizes this rebellious act of a troubled conscience. The posting of theses was routine among academicians such as Martin Luther, who was a professor of theology at the University of Wittenberg, Germany.
Ah, the good old days!
Those days weren’t that good at all. The relationship between church and state was, at that time, almost enmeshed. Luther was merely seeking some breathing room!
Aren’t we all seeking fresh air in a country where the onslaught of incivility, indecency, immorality, and vulgarity has overtaken any public venue? I’m all for putting that objectionable stuff back into the private sanctum of the bedroom. Let’s reclaim it from the me-tube tart-dom.
A holiday affair truly ought to be a private matter! It’s merely a matter of personal taste, or just taste, but I prefer a tartan Christmas to a tarted-up one.
Maintaining cherished traditions, family or otherwise, is not always an easy task. When I was in my early twenties, I commented at a Thanksgiving dinner at the house of a friend:
“Thanksgiving came again on a Thursday!”
The abundant supply of dumb-blonde jokes received a few original ideas from that one. I try to be generous at Thanksgiving.
What I really meant was that the tradition of the Thanksgiving meal is a treasure in America that cannot be cancelled. In my family of origin, after the death of my father during my childhood, I never knew what revered tradition, keepsake, or souvenir was going to be cancelled next, tossed out into the garbage, and otherwise forbidden expression by the not-so-grieving widow who nonetheless milked the professional widow routine for decades.
I therefore became well-practiced in not only preserving revered customs of my childhood, but in fashioning and initiating new ones of my own. I’ve also practiced from an early age the art of surviving faux-puritans who hold themselves sanctimoniously above their own sordid sins, but point the pious fingers of hell-fire and damnation at you for your sins. They seem to know all of your supposed transgressions against them. They’re so divinely omnipotent that they’re of no earthly use.
The lewd double-dealings of today’s noxious secular zealots defame the original, albeit morally flawed but prayerful, Christian pilgrims of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. These New Age miserable beings are just that: miserable beings, but they are very old with their bitterness of heart and shrillness of mouth about everybody but themselves.
Leave them alone. Without you as an easy target, they’ll claw fanatically at themselves. They exude their gross attention-whore non-manners only to get attention. Like Terrible-Twos that are now 32, 42, 52, on up to 82. The females, in particular, do not know how to “put them away.”
This holiday season, I am pacing myself because I do not wish to be exhausted by December 7, or Pearl Harbor Day. The sentiment, “I want to make up for last year”, is an appropriate, accurate and heart-felt one. In reality, though, one cannot make up for the time that was marred, or obliterated, by the self-loathing scrooges who have yet to see their 3rd ghost, the grim Covid reaper.
I can’t borrow time from a past that’s passed me by, to create the enchantment of today. I can build from memories of the past the magic that makes today . . . today.
I personally have drawn the line at December One for the commencement of Christmas Music to sound forth in the Milligan home. The sounds of Solstice Music most definitely and endearingly begin today, and they come to an end on 22 December. (Yes, Bing is on deck to deck those halls.)
My steam-ironing of the tartan valances will take place sometime this afternoon (after this essay is posted), followed by the critical work by Dear Husband in performing the crucial act of placing them on the specially selected windows.
The rest of this Day After Thanksgiving is for Friday, the 26th, to be lived by virtue of whatever this day demands of me, much more than whatever I demand of these hours.
Live the day for today, not for the yesterday that somehow got away. Honor the hour that is, not the hour that never was, and might never be. Aim higher than your previous target, to attain the goal, that noble goal, called The Gift. Keep your eyes on the prize. That prize is whatever will be . . .
Sometimes whatever you think you lost in the past is granted to you, more lovely and loving and marvelous, than ever before. It’s a matter of faith, not merely in the future, but in your own worthy self, to be able to receive the gifts that only the heart can count as priceless.
Yesterday, after a delicious Thanksgiving turkey, and scrumptious pumpkin pie, I started a new post-prandial tradition. The 1949 RKO film, Holiday Affair, is a quiet classic that did not fare well commercially at the time of its release. Starring Robert Mitchum and Janet Lee, this romantic comedy tells the tale of a war-widowed mother who finds love unexpectedly, but without a doubt, through the help of her son, and a few merry accidents that come her way, along a stumbling path to an honest heart.
I’d only seen this film once, three years ago, and wrote of it in the 17 December 2018 post, “Awakenings”, in the section, Me and My Muse. I enjoyed this motion picture much better the second time around, a circumstance that, I think, is also true of love, and of any celebration that sets the stage for repeat, but unique, performances.
Pace yourself for the month ahead. (You’ll get more done that way.) Christmas is a wondrous time of year, and that magical state of mind, a place in the heart where love and joy and timeless treasures always live, with the spirit of faith, hope, and charity.