Welcome jean

Let's make a character named Jean. She is barely of height to reach the top of the fridge, but is often asked to. It is a frigid mountain in her eyes, and all rewards lie at the top of frigid mountains. Cookies, donuts, and bugs in jars.
    She likes boys when they don't smile easily, but do smile often. It makes life seem harder and more rewarding all of the time. She likes beating uphill slopes, eating bland cereal, and hugging the unhugable. She likes it because it is considered difficult. She likes being considered difficult.
    On Friday, September 12th, she found herself considering suicide and living. Why? Because everyone said it was impossible. She liked the odds. With a daft slip off the side of Mt. Erickson she fell without screaming towards the impossibly high snow drifts thousands of feet below. Like a military paratrooper without a parachute she aimed herself head first into the impending destruction with great precision. And then, like the last drop of chilled iced tea meeting the glass to which all were bound, she was reunited with the inevitable ice and snow that could only be her legacy. Inevitably it fell every year, and inevitably it melted. And, inevitably she met it head on daring death to take her.

It did, but not to where it normally does.

It took her back home.

There it sat with her and asked her once more to reconsider her position. After a short scalding, one she had grown used to, it reminded her that she was not in any position to commit suicide and that unless she proceeded to do what she had so far failed to accomplish with the right attitude (one of sadness, angst, self-pity, and remorse) she would never succeed. It was then Jean thought to herself. Could it be? Had she found something that she could not accomplish, despite the odds?
      She woke from an afternoon nap a changed woman. There are impossible things in life, she thought, because she had declared them such. The impossibility was one in which she had crafted on her very own. And, as she could not accomplish those things, why bother trying? She started adding sugar to her cereal since the bitterness had really no effect on her. On her way to school she still ran up the hill because there was no reason not to see the top sooner, and she still hugged the unhuggable because she wanted to see them smile. The difficulty was in place for a reason. The rewards were meaningful. Some challenges meant to be overcome, some to teach us not to. And, she plays monopoly with Death every Thursday.

A symbol

        "This bell, like me, is a symbol of the spirit of Christmas." Santa's words in the storybook retold movie Polar Express. He doesn't claim to be the center of Christmas and I don't believe he ever will or would. He, like we, are in a circle of celebration every year. Giving gifts, sharing in the immortal spirit of joy that thrives in all in these December days (or instigates all in some other fashion). In this sense is Santa real? As real as the Christmas Trees and gifts under it. An element of a season contrived to help us see and recognize the gift we have all received. Salvation at the hands of a loving God. How grateful I am. How grateful we all should be. Sometimes it takes a person giving us chocolates to remind us that there is a greater gift to be thankful for. And, just like the season inspires the gifts, the Father inspires the goodness in all of us. The spirit brings to all the joy of the gospel. Perhaps for disciples of Christ Christmas is a way of life and December is our Sabbath.
         Is a symbol real? Why, of course it is. As real as a person, a place, a picture. Anything can be a symbol. But, does Santa have a soul? A body? Is he a person? No. He was never meant to be. A person has to live, and to live is to face trials and have more than a tummy full of jelly and a cheery laugh. Despite the many attempts at making Santa become a real person, he cannot be. The instant he is he ceases to be a legend, a myth, a symbol of the season, much like a frightening monster finally seen becomes shotgun-fodder. Thus, he goes on unseen and retains his magic, mystery, and inexplicable joy: all so that we may not see him in the season (the season would surely fall apart), but see the true immortal whose day and month it is. And, thus we see the association and the similac power of imagination to help us embody, employ, and express our joy. Merry Christmas to all of you, and to all of you the most wonderful birth of the savior once again.

This year

Admittance acknowledged this has been a wonderful year. Lavender lotion and gated communities come with stirring conversations, Shakesperean sonnets, running charades, and axillian hells. Marriage happened and I am now sealed to an eternal companion. Light plays off our door every morning waiting for us to wake. Summer time featured mini-kites in a park and several lost boomerangs, Mexican food and NF realizations. Leaves fell in the fall stuck to shoes in the winter. We track them into our computer shop, as alien to them as a Neanderthal in New York City, 2047. Worlds were discovered, dismissed, and careful cases resolved in dramatic and logical ways. Sherlock Holmes has Finesse! A book was started and still hovers there, waiting to be finished, the character in the middle of an epiphany that the author does not quite have. A machine to render imagination has been constructed and will be in a state of perpetual upgrade. Distance was created and made variable. And, somewhere, a lost phone still needs to be charged.

Disparaging

         It is as great a crime to the reality of expression to understate as it is to overstate the truth of any subject. Artistic liberties aside, the expression of any fact is a serious responsibility. Think about this fact in the perspective of one who creates reality (as we so often do on a personal level). Any deviation from the truth--even in relative terms--is, in fact, a lie. For this fact do I find the disparaging man one of my greatest foes. How dare you undercut reality? What nerve to take my incredulous existence, my sincere curiosity, and give me a meager return! Unexcuseable! With more than reality the whole truth can often be found below the exaggerated levels, but to think that over-modesty bares any great advantage over the truth is entirely folly. Whatever you are speaking on you insult and decrease your own viewed intelligence in the process.
         I do not challenge this fault of factual-poverty merely because my tendency is towards the embellished. In this particular case I find an abundance of any subject more often the preferred over the shortage. Of course exception may include armies, temperatures, food, and gamma rays, but I like to call these silly. No.
        Really, any deviation from the truth, any statement taken from the real, can become poisonous if misunderstood. May we all avoid disparaging, may we all avoid embellishing. Truly.