This is a great time for writers — and non-writers. A colorful season brimming with surprises, wrapped in tradition and myths and legends, but this year, 2012, explodes with possibility, a time “merry to some, not merry to others,” as E.B. White wrote for Christmas at the New Yorker. Tonight, the stars are out on a clear sky, glittering like Christmas lights, wondrous and magical like ornaments on a tree, sparkling like the eyes of a child on Christmas morning. Are we stargazing or searching for a glimpse of the blue comet? Right now, as we tuck ourselves in for a night’s rest in preparation for another day, is the countdown toward Christmas, or toward 12-21-12? Either way, I’ll be merry. Should 12-21-12 unfold as the Mayans predicted, I’d say I’ve lived my life as best as I could, give or take a few cases of transgression or indulgence or laziness or fear or letting go. I’ve had enough love to sustain me, though I could give and receive more should time let me. I’ve straddled the delicate world between the material and the ethereal, rich and poor, joy and sorrow. I’ve been good. I’ve been evil. I could be better or I could be worse, but should time run out, who’s to know, not even me? All I know, right now, in this, the best of times and the worst of times, as Charlie Dickens put it, I am where I should be. It might be the best to some, the worst to others, but I am not some and I am not others and I’m as happy as I can be. I’ve dreamed to write and I have written. For that alone, I am grateful, for “that is my center,” to borrow from Santa Claus in the Rise of the Guardians. I could write more. I have more to write, what I have to write is worth infinity, but should my time on earth be up in two days, I’d say I’ve written enough. But the Mayans are wrong and 12-21-12 will pass like any ordinary day. Although a part of me is curious, I’m not counting the days to Friday. I’m counting the days to Tuesday. I have a beach party on Christmas Eve to catch.
NOTE: I wrote this post in under twenty minutes, as if in a stream of consciousness, as if on automatic. Maybe it was inspiration, but I’ve done this many times, so I can say that while I believe in inspiration, I hardly ever require it. As a journalist, I write when and as much as I have to and as a writer, so do you.
- Mayan Calendar Means I Don’t Have to Shop for Christmas (nonsensetomomsense.com)