Last night I bundled up in the dark and drove down to the church. I so rarely go anywhere at night that it was disorienting piloting the car through the blackness. I entered into the warmth of the parish center to find Josh in his most iconic Christmas sweater, Wendy sipping wine, Will pulling enchiladas out of the oven, with an extra smaller dish of them generously spiked with jalapeños. Vince brought smoked salmon, Denise baked lasagna, and I carried in a plate of the St. Lucy saffron buns I make every year, despite being terrible at shaping them.
We ate and we laughed and we debated if there is any English-language novel that can contend with the Russian greats (consensus: negative), and then Fr. Chris sat down at the piano, and we all gathered around and sang. We made our way through the holy hush of “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” we belted out “Adeste Fideles,” and we did our very best with “O Holy Night,” musical territory always worth attempting to summit, even if we find ourselves stranded at the peak of its high notes.
At some point during “The First Noel,” I glanced around at the huddled group of us, about twenty people ranging in age from thirties to seventies, and I thought, “We survived.” This was the first Christmas party I had attended since before Covid. I thought about what a wild hope it was, to gather together in the dark and sing. I thought about how very dangerous that used to be. I thought about how Covid had landed on the doorstep of every person present, about the measures they’d taken to avoid it or to recover from it. I thought about how absolutely impossible this little party would have been, even a few years ago. How if you’d told me this would have been possible in December 2023, I’m not sure I would have believed you.
And, of course, our voices in the dark, our survival, the grief we carry for all whom we lost in those years, reminded me of everyone who is currently employing every single one of their wits to survive, everyone we’ve lost in this horrific warfare. It leaves me speechless. And, full disclosure, when it was time to sit down and write this newsletter, I spent an inordinate amount of time watching videos of my son when he was a baby. Thinking of all the babies killed in the last few months. Sometimes that’s the only song we can sing. But keep singing.
I think about the noise of bombs falling while the only noise I hear is the muffled thump of Christmas packages being dropped on my porch. The dissonance is crushing. Keep singing.
I think about the public services wiped out and basic human needs completely unmet as my son gleefully checks out a stack of library books. The dissonance is crushing. Keep singing.
I think about how my grandchildren here in America will learn about the unspeakable atrocities of this war in the comfort of carpeted classrooms. The dissonance is crushing. Keep singing.
I did not think I had any more capacity for end-of-the-world movies, with climate change and violence so utterly destroying the planet and its inhabitants, but I watched “Leave the World Behind” anyway. It’s an elegant and visually stunning way to ask the age-old questions, “Are we going to be okay, we humans? Are we going to dig down to the deepest bedrock of our goodness to ensure that we all survive?” And the only answer I can give is this one: “I don’t know. I don’t know.” But keep singing.
A Few Hopeful Things
-This essay on creativity from my friend Marina Gross-Hoy is absolutely stunning, and, of course, I can relate to the academic trauma and the relentless pressure of the Big Things we have to do. The reframing of that burden that Marina offers feels like a trap door into freedom. Must read.
-I’m doing my best to enter thoughtfully into what in Seattle is called The Big Dark. And I’m so looking forward to marking the solstice next week with Women’s Ordination Conference in a Taizé prayer evening called “The Sacrament of Darkness.” Please do join us!
-Did you hear that scientists have *finally* figured out what causes morning sickness?! My pregnancies were brutal, but nowhere near what countless other women have suffered. I will jump for joy if they can come up with treatments to alleviate so many people’s misery. Hallelujah for science.
Singing in the dark with you,
Cameron
From the depths of a grumpy heart comes great gratitude for this reminder to keep singing. I have anhedonia about holiday cheer this year (anholidonia?) an ability to see and remember what holiday cheer felt like, a sort of distant appreciation for the idea of Christmas lights glowing cheerily in the long dark nights, but no real feeling, no real warmth, no joy.
During the hardest of winters, the Christmas song that I find annoyingly repetitive yet so humbly touching is The Little Drummer Boy.
Everything in me wants to offer something to ease the pain felt by so many, but I have nothing to give. Nothing but the tune my voice can carry, the rhythm of pounding I can create on my drum. The ability to keep singing.
Thank you for the registration link, appreciate it!!