Contemplating Christmas

Campers with packs and tents

fade into the white-laden wilderness for several days stay

with unnoticed disturbances of crackling branches

falling from the snow’s weight

and distant rustling of night visitors wandering

among the firs and pines as

darkness makes the snow appear as soft coal

spread across the meandering landscape.

Silence soothes those settled warmly in their tents

listening to nature’s harmony – this peaceful wilderness:

a distant howl a calling owl branches moving

with the slight wind in tandem with the season

lulling these campers into a slumber.

The evening ambles like timeless moments

traversing tranquil minuscule motions of a world

seemingly stirring dismally in insignificant stages of time

(through which millions of living souls rush hurriedly to catch up with the earth’s rotation

lost in the meaninglessness of things

specks strewn on the earth like seeds spread on hard soil

falling and eventually dying and lost in memory

overcome by weeds and brevity)

traveling ever so slowly toward another day, one like no other.

They desire this rich wilderness – a divine garden –

this Christmas Eve night of nights silent in its advent

perhaps to glimpse a dazzling star

angel songs

another life.

This night hovers in expectation –

a spiritual moment –

brooding amid profound shadows

frozen in stillness and space

standing guard watching

until light shines through darkness

incomprehensible

inchoate

incarnate.

The fresh scents of sugar and ponderosa pines

rise heavenward like gifts of sweet smelling aromas

traveling on crisp and pure air

that leaves a slight refreshing chill –

like the first breath rising from the abyss

giving form to the formless

as the earth inhaled and the word gave birth.

It passes ethereally before these campers

serving comfort in solitude and solemnity

softly whispering to them

beyond the sense of sound

what the morning brings to pass.

Its cleanness transcends distress seeking

to distance them from heaven’s sacred moment

its purity brushing regenerate against their faces.

The quietness of evening lends escape

from the harshness of mundane existence of lost communities in the flurry of self-importance and urbanity

where the roar of hectic endurance and intolerance

tramples nativity for a toy or Petty Pursuit

and stains the vision of Christmas.

A deep sleep overtakes these campers

as dreams begin to dance within their hearts and heads –

anticipations and premonitions of Christmas morning’s freshness and renewal bringing possibilities of hope.

Lying beside a frozen lake beneath the firs and pines that stretch toward the house of God

their dreams still attend to movements of nature’s symphony soft and almost unnoticeable melodic notes like

a long drawn lull before a crescendo lets loose in celebration.

Sugar pines replace sugarplums –

almost supernatural in their bouquet.

They have hours to go before they wake

hours to go before they wake.

Can such a wintry silent night guide the hope of a new day?

The baby in the manger insures it.

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