Christmas in the Long Emergency

Brian Kaller has shut down my Christmas Eve blogging. Why? Because from rural County Kildare he has written a magnificent Christmas reflection on finding hope in this troubled time, and I'm afraid if I put anything else on top of it on this blog, you might be tempted to overlook it. You shouldn't. This very fine piece of writing is what I hope this blog is about in its best moments. Please take the time to read it. How lucky his daughter is to be in the care of such a father. Here's an excerpt:

I want to spare my daughter this. I want to instill, to whatever extent a father can, the high and driving Spirit, the sanguine craving to restore. Of course it is too late to change everything, and always has been. Everything is too big. But each of us can do something where we are, and there are millions of us.

We could look at the world's troubles and sink into grief, as we could when a fire sweeps through a forest or a flood wipes away a city. But forests and populations generally come back, sometimes better. We can mourn for the already extinct species, lakes and forests as we mourn our dead, but as long as we remain alive we are greater than grief. Nature will return, and with our help can return in time for our species to appreciate.

And for most of the world, it is not too late. Just a few years ago peak oil and climate change were obscure ideas, and they rapidly spread until they broke into the mainstream. We are trying to return to a simpler life, and so are millions of others - the largest movement ever, happening in every part of the world. I want her to know that we are not trying to turn the tide, for tides are natural. What is happening to the world was done by men, and will be undone. I want her to know, as Tasman McKee did not, that she is not alone.

So I try to teach her, in small and playful ways, how the outside world works, and the basic skills she might need someday. The lullabies I sing to her are old folk songs, because unlike pop songs today, they are meant to be sung by ordinary people together, and we might need such things again. When we pick weeds for soup I tell her what little I know of the plants that can be eaten and plants to avoid. I am proud that, when she was only two and was stung by a nettle, she immediately found the nearest dock-leaf in the grass and rubbed it on the sting - she had absorbed that one heals the other.

She loves animals as much as any child, and we talk in detail about where they live, what makes them mammals or birds or bugs, what they eat and what they do for us and each other. For now, it is just a game, but over time, perhaps, she will make connections.

She knows, in recited pieces of theory at least, how to cook, how to make yogurt and sourdough starter, how to compost. In time, I want her to learn how to ride and bridle, speak different languages, hunt, be sceptical, think logically and organize people. I can't completely predict what she will face, nor can I plan her life, but I can show her a beginning.

But right now she is four, and is waiting for Santa. She patiently takes a single treat out of her Advent calendar each day, she helps make supper and she will fall asleep listening for reindeer hooves on the roof. Christmas is at this time of year for a reason, and not because we know when Jesus was born. It is just after the weakest day and the longest night, when the world prepares to be born again, when we take our first steps away from the darkness and ready ourselves for the arduous season ahead.

Read the whole thing. And, if you're so inclined, you might wish to revisit an old piece I wrote for Touchstone magazine about a Christmas moment in New York City after 9/11. It's written in a similar spirit.

And now, the copy is edited here at the News, the pages are proofed, so I head off to Christmas Eve. I'll check in with y'all tomorrow. A blessed evening to you all, and thanks for reading and commenting and sticking around this past year. The Crunchy Con blog had an astonishingly good year, crossing the half-million mark in page views several months, all because of your faithfulness. I owe you. Come by the house, I'll mix you a Manhattan.