Classiques Modernes Christmas

HOLIDAY ISSUE 2015

My Christmas Prayer It’s that time now.

BY DAVID CONRAD

Not even ten days to Christmas. Single digits left in December, and counting. Things slowing down as much as they speed up.

Driving past houses and through entire neighborhoods, I’m starting to feel the population as a whole lean toward that collective gesture, which the holidays bring to bear. I search for it window by window. Whole cities turning inward, turning toward each other - what the Christians call the passing of the peace. “And also with you.”

Christian, Jews, Muslim, etc. etc. under the sky, across the rolling fields of the republic, what’s it matter the denomination? As a nation we move this month like a common flock towards decency, toward kindness, in general. And as I age “in general” means more to me. The most benefit for the greatest number. The widest distribution of affection.

I don’t mind if it’s a little hackneyed, a little commercial, a little heavy on the marketing end. What I feel is the moral earth shift. The tectonics of kindness lean slightly toward love. Day by dwindling day, minute by minute, when you decide to hold the door for the stranger more than a couple steps behind, when you choose to embrace the old friend who hasn’t returned your call in an age, when you watch the year tick down and every moment seems to contain the question, the possibility of transformation: I will cherish this point in my life. I will lend some light, some hope, to someone today. If there’s not a core truth to this season then why does it pester us so?

Why shouldn’t we feel a little guilt? And why shouldn’t it nudge us toward love? To quote Paul McCartney, “What’s wrong with that?”

What might be the greatest miracle at the heart of all the great religions is that they ask for irrational poverty. They’re relentless in their critique of the practicalities of wealth, how wealth creates its own “reason,” its own ecology of selfish thinking.

What I find amazing is that still, thousands of years later, we blush hearing the truth of that critique.

Maybe we hear it best about now. We know rapacity doesn’t work, that it’s cruel, and that humans are only exalted by co-operative action. We sing best together.

(And forgive the pronoun, though written by a woman) -“What can I bring him, poor as I am..?”

Ourselves, gestures of generosity in the full figure, praise.

I think that’s what I feel during Christmas. Praise. Thanks. To some God somewhere who keeps speaking to us regardless of our faith.

Ladders up to the same heaven. In the bleak midwinter.

And yet so damn gorgeous.

FAI

ITH

ANOTHER BUSHWICK CHRISTMAS

BY KENNETH KERN

Just before Christmas, I stopped in at a church I know in Bushwick. Not that Bushwick. I’m talking old Bushwick. BC Bushwick- Before it was Cool. I was in Bushwick when it was the poorest assembly district in New York. That neighborhood had some serious image problems.

Income was low, crime rates were high, and the firemen were the best in the city, because they had so much practice putting out fires in insured buildings that no one would buy.

The small storefront church sits in the shadows of an elevated train track in eastern Bushwick, just a few blocks from Brownsville and East New York, in what is still one of the poorest corners of New York City. Poverty shapes the lives of the little congregation. It impacts every decision, but it doesn’t dampen the spirit of Christmas. People here have stared in the face of poverty. It cannot beat them. The battles have left them scarred, but their spirit is unbowed.

“I came here 32 years ago from Guyana,” Aletha Stevens told me. What she wouldn’t tell me is how old she is. But I do know she has ten grandchildren and five great grandchildren. “I came to visit my sister for Thanksgiving. All I knew about America at that time was what I saw in the movies and heard on the news.

“When I came for my visit,” Aletha remembered, “my sister told me, ‘no one comes to New York and goes back home.’ Six years later, I had my citizenship papers.”

Aletha, who worked in New York all her adult life is now on disability.

“I fell at home and broke my leg.” The rest of her story is about a healthcare system that’s based on the wealth of the patient. She was never properly treated, and eventually wound up getting back surgery. “After the back surgery, I couldn’t hear or see or talk for a week. I was in a nursing home for two months. Eventually, I had both knees replaced. It made it very hard to work.

“I’m willing to do more, but I can’t. I took some lessons at LaGuardia College on the computer.

I bought a laptop. But someone broke in and stole it.”

Sitting with her in the church, I wanted wondered what difference poverty made to her Christmas. I asked what she would do if she had some extra money for the holidays.

“If I had money, I would do things for others.”

She was not the last one to tell me this. I had to push to get her to think of herself. She finally admitted that her life could be better with a few purchases.

“For myself, I’d like to get a good back and two good knees. I sit a lot in my living room. I’d like a nice chair, a recliner. And I’d like to change my bedroom set.”

The woman’s plans for the holidays focused on family. The plans are a little different than they used to be.

“When my mother was alive we would all gather at her home. Now, I spend Christmas with my elder daughter. I don’t do a lot of walking anymore. I used to go and get gifts for the grandkids. I can’t buy anything for them, now. I can’t afford it. So, all I can give them is a simple hug and a kiss, and reminisce.

“I’m hurting so bad, now. I would like them to fix my knee so I could run with my grandkids. But I’m thankful for SSI. I live alone. Some nights it hurts. I’m living one day at a time.”

A man came by and introduced himself as Ronald Bradford. As we shook hands, Ronald immediately struck me as the most peaceful, contented man I have ever met. He seemed so happy it was almost unnerving. He was happy to tell me he’s 53, and happy to talk about his plans for the holidays.

“For Christmas I hope to celebrate with my grandson. He’s one year old. I’ve never seen him. He lives in Florida. This will be his first trip to New York. I feel really good knowing I have a grandson. It gives me energy. You have no idea what a grandson is. When I see him, I’m just gonna pick him up and hold him.

I hope he and his mom come here to the church for our Christmas dinner.”

The man’s daughter and grandson will be staying in New York for several days, but not with him.

“I’m in a rooming situation,” he told me. “They can’t stay with me. They’ll stay with her mom, and I’ll visit.”

He had heard my conversation with Aletha. He was ready with an answer before I could ask the question.

“If I had more money, the first thing I’d do is take my daughter and grandson to DisneyWorld. Then, I’d love to go to Las Vegas. I’ve never been. My friends tell me it’s for me.”

Ronald, who “used to be a musician,” has tasted the temptation of financial success.

“Twenty years ago, it was all about myself. God has a funny way of humbling you. Years ago, I was a musician. I wrote songs. My songs were very popular, but my words were bad. I had cars, jewelry, drink, drugs, women. My uncle, who was a preacher, questioned what I was writing and doing. He said to me, ‘what does it profit a man who loses his soul?’ I walked away from that style of music. Now I feel good.”

I asked him if he’d like a grand piano. As he thought about the idea, the answer was all over his face before he opened his mouth.

“If I had a grand piano that would be beautiful. That would make me feel...” He stopped talking and just looked off into space, imagining his fingers on the keys of that grand piano. “We have just an upright here,” he told me, referring to an antique sitting against the wall. He plays it for the congregation whenever he can.

“A grand piano,” he said, going back to the dream. “That’s the first thing on my list. Second is a car. I used to have a Shelby Cobra. Now, I would get a BMW I-8 Spyder. It’s my dream car.”

Ronald was good enough to tell me a little about wealth.

“The money is an illusion of satisfaction. It’s multiple drinks, drugs. It can’t help you sleep. You gain money, but you lose a lot. I was making $500 a night playing my music. But it didn’t add up. Now, I play here in church. My mind is clear, my music is better than ever.”

On my right, Lenore Jackson smiled in appreciation, remembering the many times she’s heard that music. Lenore is another one of these folks from old Bushwick who just don’t look old enough to have learned everything they know. I asked Lenore where she is from.

“I came here about 42 years ago from Belize. I came to help my family. I worked and also went to school, but I always thought I would go home and build a house.

“I became a social worker. I had an accident and fell at work. That was four years ago.

Now I’m on disability. I’m alright in the summer, but in the winter the pain is bad.”

It doesn’t stop her from getting out.

“For Christmas, we’re going over to my only friend and spend the day making her happy. She can’t get around on her own. She can’t get out of bed, so we’ll visit her and remind her of Jesus. We’ll do our best to make her happy.”

Lenore also thought first of others when I asked what she’d do with a little extra money.

“I would help my daughter and grandson, and my friend in bed. My daughter would like to go to school to be a registered nurse, but she doesn’t have the money for school and a baby sitter.”

When it was time for me to go, I was showered with warm season’s greetings. I headed for the door full of Christmas spirit. But outside the little church, under the elevated tracks I became a little sad, a little angry. There’s an apparent unfairness in life that’s particularly irritating around Christmas time. It was bothering me as I walked to the car. Then I remembered something that was said just a few minutes before in the church. Lenore had explained it all to me fifteen minutes before. Christmas is not about the things we don’t have.

“The giving of love is what Christmas is about,” Lenore told me. “We share our good fortune with others less fortunate. We should give to those who have nothing.”

HO

OPE

GRAND ARMY PLAZA NEW YORK CITY

Lord &Taylor NEW YORK CITY

TAKING THE LONG WAY HOME

BY JASON GARELICK

There is a heaviness to the air, palpable to the senses and inescapable. Every breath brings the weathered elements surrounding you in one end and out the other. Your body incorporates what is left behind and passes off the unnecessary back into the air, haphazardly searching for its next destination. The rustling wind carries the air, flowing aimlessly, picking up leaves, and whatever else is caught in its wake far off into the world of wonder you find yourself in.

The trickling of rain is heard dripping from the treetops and collecting in pools on the ground.

The path is covered by overgrown bushes, unkempt and left to grow long and as wild as they please. Your footsteps, barely echoing past earshot, creates silence that in any other circumstance would have left you unsettled. But instead, you are calmed by the empty presence.

A thick fog fills the space in between, obscuring what lies beyond the distance, making you feel peacefully alone and completely lost within yourself. The ambiance felt deep within you sets the stage for what you were unprepared for but would have welcomed if it came knocking on your door.

The smell of charcoal and burning wood fills the atmosphere, the source of which you are unsure. You associate this scent with recollections that at first seem only loosely connected; but were you to look harder into them you may find that they all represent different parts of yourself. Strung together, they tell more about you than words ever could. It’s moments like these when words would just get in the way of the feelings inside you. And when such moment has passed, you’re left with a sort of pleasant understanding.

But while truly present in that moment and letting your thoughts guide you, it’s fascinating to see where you end up…in a forgotten wooden cabin were your inner self dwells, isolated from the waking world around you. There you pull relics from the past off a dusty shelf, sweetened if not survived by nostalgia.

You give into the intrigue and your curiosity, flipping through the bookmarks you left for yourself the last time you were there. These inkblot memories take shape and form slideshows of wistful remnants of a past only accessible where time and dream intersect, the gateway to your past. They all leave a warm fuzzy feeling throughout your body, and perhaps even a cherished smile on your face.

By this time of year the summer months have long since passed and everyone is eagerly looking forward to what the year ahead will bring them. We gather ourselves and enjoy a night rich with reminiscing over cocktails and conversations. As each person pulls out his or her own story to tell, a new tale is written and placed upon the shelf to join the others, awaiting its turn to be taken down and shared again.

THE BUDDHA & CHRISTMAS

BY KENNETH KERN

Increasingly, I find a number of Americans are getting on my nerves. I often deal with this by fantasizing acts of extreme violence for which I suffer no consequences. It’s all very satisfying.

I’m sure you can imagine how troubling this is. I, a man of peace, a long-time (if casual) follower of the Buddha, a sincere and qualified intellectual if ever there was one, harboring in my idle moments, thoughts of unspeakable violence. What must you think of me?

I realize that, for the sake of my own mental health, this savagery-in-mind must cease. But how? The easiest solution would be to deport the cause of it all, a group of people I call the ignorati. The ignorati are not an ethnic group.

Their ranks include members of every discernible sub-group of humans- both genders, every color and religion, conservative and liberal. What sets the ignorati apart from some of us is the impregnable wall around their mind which makes them impervious to reason. Thus lacking a proper basis for analysis, the ignorati turn to emotion as a foundation for decision-making; a system I describe cleverly as, “I feel, therefore I act.”

Being overly analytical, overly intellectual, and intolerably arrogant, my response to the mere existence of the ignorati is fury. To make matters worse, one of the major political parties is offering several of these people as potential candidates for president, placing me into a nearly constant state of anger.

Imagine my distress as Christmas approaches. Peace on Earth, good will toward men?

After giving the matter much too much thought, I’ve turned for advice to the ethical foundation of our great nation, the bible. As usual, the answer is right there in black and white, in Leviticus 19:18. If you’ve been drinking and can’t remember, it says, “’Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against anyone among your people, but love your neighbor as yourself. I am the LORD.” I don’t know why he stuck that last part in there. Of course he’s the LORD. It’s the bible, not wikipedia. Although if you ask me, I find the use of all capitals a bit self-important. “Lord” would be quite sufficient, and a good deal less pompous.

At any rate, there you have it. The answer to all my troubles is right there in the old bible. “Love thy neighbor.”

Indeed, if I love my neighbors, I’m sure all my anger will vanish like a field of calla lilies under the hooves of a million wildebeest.

Simple enough, if your neighbor is a nice fellow. But what about the asses of the world. You know who I mean. The ones who don’t understand what I’m talking about. Brainless louts, every one of them. How am I supposed to love these people?

The answer lies in yet another source of wisdom. The Buddha.

“You will not be punished for your anger,” says the Enlightened One. “You will be punished by your anger.”

You’ve got to admit, when it comes to subtle, nobody beats the Prince Who Sat Under a Tree.

So if I understand correctly, when I express my anger toward my fellow man or woman (if “my fellow woman” makes any sense) it is not he or she who will get the kick in the old ass from fate, but in fact, I. Thus, the reason we should love one another is not nobility, but pure selfishness. The Buddha says basically, love your fellow fellows and gals because you’ll be much better off that way.

So with the holiday season upon us, while you reflect on how much you really do love all the damned fools in your life, give a thought to all the anonymous fools you haven’t even met yet. Remember, they’re out there waiting for their moment in the great play of your life, and surely when it happens, it will annoy the crap out of you. That’s the time to remember the advice of the Buddha.

Love your neighbor because it’s the road to true happiness.

LOV

OVE

GOODWILL CLEARANCE SALE

BY DAVID CONRAD

Christmas is like the Titanic.

It’s beautiful, it’s powerful, everyone wants to be a part of it.

No one thinks it’s going to end.

People dress in their Sunday best, they greet one another warmly as they pass by, every day of the season seems special.

And then when they realize it’s almost over, people climb all over each other to get what they think they need. Desperate messages are sent. There’s a rush toward the bottom, and its last hours are a frantic swirl of material, oaths of love, and cold reality.

Us and our stuff.

So bring the boats back and save some poor bastards.

Remember it’s the “us” that matters.

‘Cause pretty soon, come New Years, the Carpathia will show up and take us back to real life. Snooze.

Enjoy it while you can.

the christmas store nyc

madison square park

BANANA PECAN BUNDT CAKE INGREDIENTS: 2 1/2 cups flour 1 1/2 cups sugar 1 1/4 tsp baking powder 1 tsp baking soda 1/2 tsp salt 1/2 cup unsalted butter softened 1 1/2 cup (3 large very ripe bananas mashed) 2 eggs 1 cup sour cream 1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract 1/2 cups unsalted pecans 1/2 cup dried cranberries

PREPARATION:

BY LOY CARLOS

WINTER BERRIES & CHOCOLATE TOPPING. In the cake pictured here, I decided to make two layers of topping. For the chocolate layer, I melted 1/2 cup of good bittersweet chocolate. and drizzled all over the cooled cake. For the compote, I placed a 1 1/2 cups of mixed berries (raspberry, strawberry, blackberry) and a half a cup of sugar in a heavy sauce pan under medium heat (I added a sprig of fresh lavander from my garden, too, which gave it a nice floral aroma. When sugar was dissolved, I added a tablespoon of grand marnier and let it simmer until thick. When done, I poured the compote into a heat-resistant bowl and placed in the refrigerator to quickly cools before adding over the drizzled chocolate.

Preheat oven to 350° F. In a large bowl sift flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Set aside.

In a pan over a stovetop or oven, toast the pecans. Set aside to cool.

Butter a bundt mold and set aside.

Place butter in mixer with paddle attachment and whisk at medium speed until creamy. Add the sugar slowly making sure it is all incorporated. Add bananas. Mix well. Then add vanilla extract.

Add half of the dry ingredients, mix, then add the sour cream. Add the rest of the ingredients and mix just enough to be fully integrated. Add the pecans and dried cranberries. Pour into your buttered bndt mold. Place in middle rack of preheated oven for approximately one hour. Check that the cake is done by placing a toothpick at the center of the bundt.

TIP #1: For a moist cake, the center top should have just lost its moisture but none of the batter is clinging to the toothpick.

TIP #2. You MUST let it cool completely before unmolding. The bananas trap moisture and make the center of this cake quite delicate. If you unmold before it has cooled completely, the cake may rip so be gentle. As it cools however, the structure becomes quite sturdy and the cake keeps well.

When completely cooled, top with your favorite icing. Royal icing, sourcream frosting, a drizzle of chocolate or fruit compote–all make this cake simply scrumptious.

JO

OY

BERGDORF GOODMAN NEW YORK CITY

HARRY WINSTON NEW YORK CITY

TIFFANY

NEW YORK CITY

SAKS FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK CITY

“YES, VIRGINIA.YOUR CHOLESTEROL AND SUGAR LEVEL ARE ELEVATED.”

BY LOY CARLOS

If I were to write all my thoughts on what overwhelms my Christmas this year, you’d be staring at a blank page.

That’s right, the duke of Christmas fell off his horse somewhere, currently suffering from emotional amnesia that may very well turn into a permanent case of spiritual cancer. Well, that’s my personal diagnosis anyway, though I haven’t checked WebMD yet. Or Oprah.

As everyone knows or should know by now, in 1897 a girl named Virginia had a dilemma. Her friends were claiming that Santa Claus wasn’t real. Upset by this mean spirited “assertion,” Virginia turned to her mother to ask if Santa truly existed. Her mother replied that if Virginia saw “it in the New York Sun, then it must be so.” So the quick thinking lass wrote to the editor of the newspaper, and his response (which I will reprint at the end of this) has since become the most eloquent summation of the essence of Santa Claus and Christmas.

Bah humbug! That would have been Scrooge’s response. In this age of internet trolling and media bashing, the vitriol would probably be exponentially worse.

Donald Trump would be shaming Virginia for learning to potty, the Bern might lecture her on the evils of Santa’s commercialization of Christmas and deplorable conditions in his manufacturing and distribution plant (not to mention destroying the North Pole. Drill baby, drill!). Little Teddie Cruz would tell her the old geezer was banned from crossing the border, Jeb would be belting “three Bushes in the White House, two orange Trumps and a partridge in a pear tree,” Dr. Carson might confuse him with the Easter Bunny and Rubio won’t show up to answer questions at all. Only Hillary would save the day by neither confirming nor denying Santa’s existence. (In fact, rumor has it that he and the other Mr. Claus already reserved a night in the Lincoln bedroom, Christmas Day 2017. Go Bill… I mean Hill!!!)

As a Roman Catholic, I never believed in Santa Claus, at least not in the jolly old bearded fellow in red robes. I grew up believing in the magic of Christmas arising from these words, the cornerstone of my faith: That God so loved the world that He sent His only Begotten Son.” That was the ultimate gift. The message of Christmas to me is a message of love.

As for the tradition of exchanging presents, ours was tailored after the story of the three kings. Yes, we call them kings not wise men because central to this version is the message of wealth inequality. They were men of affluence and wisdom who nevertheless gave the best they had to honor the infant born in a manger. The message in Christmas gift giving is not one of affection, but rather of humility.

I recall once in high school, our class decided to do “Secret Santa.” Throughout the following weeks, we all received little gifts, culminating in revelation day where a more substantial gift would be given and our secret santa’s identities would be revealed. A few days before revelation day that year, a boy whispered to me that he had, in fact, picked my name. Coming from a lower middle class family, he said he was afraid to insult me by giving me something that wasn’t up to my standards, and pleaded for me to let him know what I wanted so he could find a way to get it.

I thought he was just teasing me so I told him anything would be fine. On revelation day, feeling embarrassed, he handed me a box containing an inexpensive prepackaged set of three handkerchiefs. To this day, I still consider that as one of the most precious gifts I ever got. To have someone think that nothing he could get would be good enough for me said more about him than it did about me. He, to me, was the fourth king.

I knew then as I believe now, that it isn’t about receiving; the message of Christmas is about giving. And it isn’t what we give that determines a gift’s value, but it’s in how we give it.

The focus on giving and thinking of others, that’s what has always brought me happiness in past Christmases.

But writing this on Christmas Eve, I hate to admit that I feel nothing. Not misery or loneliness or happiness or frustration or anxiety. Nothing. For me, it is the most terrifying state to be in.

When I should be humming Christmas carols, all that keeps playing in my head is A Chorus Line’s “Went to church, praying Santa Maria, ‘Help me feel it. Help me feel it, pretty please. And the voice from down at the bottom of my soul came up to the top of my head, a voice from down at the bottom of my soul here is what it said,” … …. … Sorry I missed that! The voice from down at the bottom of my soul sounds an awful lot like Siri.

For the first time in my life, I no longer feel like a child. Endless fantasies of a Disneyesque future have all but vanished. Age has found my idealism waning. And as I increasingly accept and appreciate what is, I’m beginning to lose sight of what can be. Contentment, it appears, is a dangerous thing. It is the anti-Christmas.

For Christmas doesn’t celebrate how good we are now, rather it promotes the longing to become better than we are. The Christmas story doesn’t tell us that the world is as it should be. Instead, the birth of the child symbolizes a beginning, the beginning of hope¬–hope that we will all find kindness and love for each other, faith that despite all the destruction and suffering we bring upon ourselves we may someday find salvation.

Christmas doesn’t dwell in the sufferings of the past or the mundaneness of the present. It lives on in our desire for a better future.

Thus the real danger to Christmas isn’t suffering or commercialism, it is apathy. It is indifference. These two evils aren’t just out to extinguish the Christmas spirit; they are out to destroy humanity. Our humanity. All humanity.

So this year I am especially concerned, just as I was when my doctor said my cholesterol and sugar level were elevated. Aging has changed my physical and spiritual metabolism. Both my body and spirit have become less adept at coping with the toxins in my environment, which have begun to accumulate in me. It is crossing the threshold of beginning to end, from the illusion of immortality to having a very real sense of mortality.

To ensure physical good health at any age, doctors suggest good diet and regular exercise. In terms of spiritual health, the prescription is the same. We have to be aware of the negativity we take in. We must strive to put ourselves in situations and relationships that nurture us and allow us to thrive. We have to regularly exercise kindness, patience, discipline, open mindedness, tolerance and empathy towards each other. We have to stop promoting and supporting hateful acts and hateful speech, regardless of how popular they may be. We have to realize that peace cannot be borne out of hatred and murder, that without the hope for peace, we have no future.

There is no heaven or god or virgins that will reward your hatred.

No. I am not perfect the way I am. I have not done as much as I can, I’m not as good as I can be. I probably will never be. And what each Christmas reminds me most is that there is much work that needs to be done by me, that another year has passed and not enough joy and love and peace have been shared. It also reminds me that a new year is just around the corner, and that there is reason to hope. For next year brings much promise as long as we continue to think and feel, not for ourselves, but for others. To achieve that we all need constant exercise, the exercise of love and compassion.

DEAR EDITOR, I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, ‘If you see it in THE SUN it’s so.’ Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

Signed, Virginia O’Hanlon 115 West Ninety-Fifth Street NYC.

VIRGINIA , your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia , whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS . There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your Papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see.

Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA , in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever.

A thousand years from now, Virginia , nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

THE ROAD

BY LOY CARLOS

If life were a trip, there would always be those who are focused on the destination, and there would be some who enjoy just being on the journey.

The hardest thing about the first, is managing expectations. It’s never a direct route; there will be detours.

And just because you’re turning a corner doesn’t mean you’re where you wanted to be. Sometimes it’s just where you need to be, and that doesn’t always feel good enough.

As for the second, perhaps it’s the ideal way. You’re more likely to feel appreciative of wherever you are. But for me, this philosophy would only work if life were ideal. But it isn’t.

There are days when I’m happy just to be passing through a bad neighborhood–and it seems there are always bad neighborhoods in every quest. And even a romantic like me probably shouldn’t stop to smell roses that are hanging at the edge of a cliff. Or worse, sometimes the road to somewhere is just nowhere.

There’s nothing to see there. It’s hard for me to be appreciative of that. The nothingness, the void, the emptiness. But that’s just me.

The point is this: we’re all travelers. The only people who really know how their journeys worked out are those who are past the finish line. And dead. And yet, we come across so many modern day “gurus” offering “tips” like the “Ten Things You Must Do to Be Happy Forever”, “Five Things to Cure Your Depression Permanently”, “20 Ways to Never Get Sick (Fat, Old, Bored, Miserable…)”, “Three Perfect Ways to Decorate Your Life and Find a Cure for Loneliness,” “Eight Ultimate Ways to be a Better Lover…” Most are no more than snake oil vendors, and most good advice they happen upon are things we probably had already heard from our elders and have foolishly ignored. Why? Because we think we’re all so unique.

I used to share similar theories, what I thought then was wisdom. Though as I get older, I realize I really don’t know much. In life, we can’t always be happy, we can’t always be right. In fact, I’m probably wrong about this.

Perfection is an illusion, a seductive lover that cozies up with our imagination. It plays with our perception– alluring, like the dreamy teen posters (mine were Lamborghini, Madonna and Tom Cruise) hanging on our walls. If we could only have that, in whatever way we seek, we’d have it all. But would we really?

What I try to remind myself is that happiness and satisfaction happens more in times of need than in times of want. A child who has had every toy ever made would always want to have the next best thing. And there would never be enough. On the other hand, the child who has never had a toy would spend many happy hours playing with a piece of wood. It’s not because the poor child has a better imagination, but rather in those few hours of enjoyment, he/she makes a choice to be happy, content on accepting an imperfect world and his/her place in it. He/She wouldn’t always feel that way, of course. There will be days when the status quo wouldn’t be good enough. Instinct drives that. Without it, animals wouldn’t migrate. Those in barren lands will simply stay where they are and die if there isn’t the primal need to find better, to do better. In other words: to adapt, to evolve.

But that’s the thing about an imperfect life, it’s never the same. Nothing ever stays down as long as we keep dreaming and believing. Challenges present opportunities for discovery, invention, and even reinvention.

We take wrong turns, we pass bad neighborhoods, we make bad decisions. The key is to keep moving and to keep learning. Fervently adhering to all these tips from strangers about how to live perfectly is like listening to the GPS giving you directions in an uncharted part of town. Take direction. But keep in mind that no one sets the journey but you. So you’re only lost if you believe you are. Be patient. Drive till the road happily meets you. Then be prepared to turn.

PEA

ACE

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