Happy Christmas all, and a Merry New Year!
God bless us, every one.

When I walked in the door to work this morning, having been on a splendid two week vacation, I was met with a huge hug from a friend.
"Welcome back!" he said, then whispered "I quit smoking!"
I was suddenly happier than I'd been for the past month. Geoffrey, I'm so awfully proud.

And so it begins.
I withdrew a piece of blindingly white paper from the notebook, and wrote the names of my family in precise rows, next to which I put the letters S - stocking, and P - present. I stare thoughtfully at the corner of the ceiling, and contemplate which whims of my people I can afford. I'm keeping it small this year. Well, actually, I've always kept it small, formerly because I never had enough money to go more than $5 a person big. But not this year. I'm rich this year. And I'm still keeping it small. I hate to sound like a magazine article, but seriously more and more I laugh in disbelief at the insanity of the season.
I fill in the blanks of my list, and smile when I anticipate the barrage of sly questions people will ask me. "What are you getting for Halleleyah this year?" my little sister Halleleyah will casually say, making her voice sound as much like Michael's as she can. My brother will pretend to eavesdrop at the door, even though he wouldn't dare spoil his suspense for anything.
I guess when it comes down to it, I love Christmas. I love keeping people in suspense. I adore surprising them with something they were SURE I would never get them. Or something unexpected they never said they wanted, but secretly hoped they'd get. I love how much we laugh. I love stirring the fruitcake concoction, and breathing in the warm spices. I love sharing the first candycane of the year with my beautiful little sister. I love the crisp bite in the wind, even though I don't like being cold. I love that Jesus somehow decided we were worth leaving the spirit realm, and becoming a mortal human for. I love that He couldn't let us die for our sins, but died for us, even though we mocked Him for it.

I went to a Community Christmas Concert last afternoon. At one point, all sixty voices swelled and dropped, clinging to a minor chord. It was beyond beautiful.

As I listened, I felt the pulse of a poets blood
beating in my wrists. I was filled with a vast
sense - the wild sense that I was about to create;
something, I thought, beautiful, and dark, and
holy at once. The sense that the most sacred
recesses of my mind were about to be opened
in a flood. I sat with pen in hand, and realized
that inspiration was my masterpiece.

Sometimes I wonder if artistic people expect too much of themselves. We think we ought to be dashing off brilliant productions every time we feel a poem is tragic, or a choir holy. Sometimes I wonder if the mere fact that we are inspired by another man's work is more of a timeless epic than any Iliad or Opera will be; if it is really the completion of the composers inspiration.

I drank in her words, anxiously hoping for just one mention of him. And then I remembered I'd already let him go.

It is a bookstore.
I am in my element. This is my world, the book world. I walk in the door, and exhileration overtakes me. The long tall shelves, full of personalities in hard or soft covers, elaborate or simple covers, greet me with dignified, yet inviting, silence. I tend to think of books as creatures in themselves, that humans have no part in creating, though we like to think so. Every story has already been birthed in the history of the human race, and all we do is discover them.
I stroll the aisles, embracing the titles with my eyes. How am I to choose one among them? There are too many to read in a day, a week. I could live here, and never tire of them. The hour passes quickly, and I do not purchase any. I buy rarely, selectly. Not often do I find a book to perfectly fill the spaces in my shelves, but when I do I have the nicest feeling. An elation, a glorious elation that few, I think, understand.
I may be making a heaven out of the flammable, but indeed as a writer I cannot help myself. It is an intelligent hobby, with so much more class than fishing, and I believe myself justified.