​My heartfelt thanks to the three members of the WWOC who helped me with the artwork and music. I could not do it without you. The WWOC rocks! 

The Rose by Amanda McBroom

 Dear Friends: The other day I walked by a woman whose T-shirt read: It is in our hands. This resonated with me and seemed to perfectly reflect the following "legend" I had written about the sand dollar. In troubled times, it is up to us to find the good and true in life, to seek solace in each other's company, to show compassion and goodwill. In short, to set an example that others will hopefully then follow. It is tempting, when another motorist cuts you off, to snarl or to respond in kind, it is hard not to frown when a shopper jostles you in her hurry to reach the eggs. But I have been trying hard to keep the holiday spirit and to try to see the other point of view. Maybe that shopper and driver are in a hurry or preoccupied, and their actions do not reflect their true character. I also seek refuge in those people I know who are kind, thoughtful and make my spirits bright and I hope that I make their day a bit brighter as well. 
May we all seek hope and goodwill this Christmas and in the year to come. And may we try to sow the seeds of kindness and caring wherever we go. Maybe then, those seeds will start to grow and will sprout new attitudes among all. One can always hope!

Once in a land to the West, bordering the vast ocean, there was a community of caring, intelligent people. These people were peace-loving and welcomed all. But many of their fellow citizens to the South and East were not of like mind. And these other people, who had now found their voice, used it brashly and loudly. The people of the West became concerned, and soon their concern turned to anger and sadness. Some took to mimicking their opponents’ tactics, shouting and calling names. Others said this was not the course to take. 
“We must rise above the invective,” they said, “and show the path to a better way. We must strive to understand our fellow humans.”
And so controversy grew. Soon, divisiveness was the law of the land and each person increasingly went their own lonely way, separated from family and friends, turning to artificial means of emotional sustenance. But a few still clung together. They met, they talked, and they agreed that there must be a better way. 
Summer gave way to Fall. The Autumn winds brought fire to the region. This year, the fires were fiercer than ever before and many homes and lives were lost. The people could construct new houses; rebuilding their lives would be more difficult. There were many heroes who saved lives, many who came from other communities to help; but even here dissent was sown.  There was argument over the cause of the fires, there was blame to go around, leaders who said this would not have happened had they been in charge. 
The rains arrived, putting out the fires. But the divisions remained. The Winter holiday season crept in. A large decorated tree appeared in the center of the burned town, a gift from a neighboring community.  Then a string of lights appeared. In the big city, the lights were lit on the largest buildings as always. The store windows glittered with holiday displays. People began to shop. Traffic grew worse. Many people embraced the holiday fully, shopping after work, decorating trees at home, singing along to carols. Some grumbled, as always, about the commercialism, about the hype. They stayed home. Others complained that the true meaning of the season had been lost. They went to church. Still others said the holiday had nothing to do with their religion. They celebrated their own holidays, in their own time, their own way. And more and more people argued against the entire season. Many of them went on long trips to sunny lands for the month of December. 
Amidst this confusion and discord, Winter Solstice arrived. After all, the planet Earth continued to orbit its star, the sun continued to shine, and the celestial calendar continued, untouched by humans on Earth. In their search for meaning in this new age full of technology, gadgets and dated beliefs, an increasingly large group of humans was turning to the natural world once again, as their long ago ancestors had done. It did not matter in what area of the Earth their ancestors had lived, all had celebrated the coming and going of the seasons that governed their lives. 
On the evening of the Solstice, a group of people convened at the beach. This was a spontaneous decision, driven by a conversation a number of them had had that morning over breakfast in the local diner. All were feeling discouraged by the state of the nation, the world, none were church-going and could not seek solace there, and they were tired of television and social media. They had no desire to celebrate the upcoming holiday in the usual way, but they all felt the need to mark the season somehow. So they had decided to meet at the beach that evening. They made no other plans. They would watch the sunset, that was all. And take comfort in each other’s company. 
So just before sundown, people began to appear on the beach by the large rock. There were couples with dogs, families with children, teenaged couples, older couples walking hand in hand. There were lone people too, young and old. One girl even carried a pet rabbit. As they appeared, they slowly drew closer to each other and soon a circle had formed. A shout down by the water disturbed their reflections. 
“Look!” A young girl held something up in her hand. A few people walked down to the water to see. 
“A sand dollar,” she said. “And not just one. There are so many. There must be at least a hundred.”
“Don’t touch them,” one man warned. “They are living creatures and should be respected.”
The girl looked down at the object in her hand with confusion and consternation. 
“It doesn’t look alive,” she said hesitantly, letting her hand drop to her side.
“It’s not alive,” a woman answered. “It is white; it is just the shell.”
“Even so, it should be left alone,” the man insisted. 
By now, most of the people had come down to the water. A ranger in uniform, who had seen the group from her truck and come down to see what was going on, spoke.
It is Solstice,” she said. “A special occasion. And yes, the sand dollars are dead. Those are the skeletons only. So I think if you wish to pick one up and observe it carefully, that is fine, as long as you replace it when you are done.” She smiled at the young girl, who returned the smile and held her treasure up once more.
In unison, the others now searched for a sand dollar of their own, then in silent agreement, they formed a circle. As the sun began to set, each person contemplated their sand dollar.
The girl, now emboldened, said in a strong voice,
“See the five petals. It is like a flower- or a star. And I think each represents something. The large one on top, I think that is peace.”
Many nodded. Then a man’s voice said, “And the one on the left is goodwill.”
“The one below it is kindness,” said a woman’s voice.
“The one on the right is thoughtfulness,” said a quiet male voice with a university accent.
“And below it is caring,” said the slightly quavering voice of an older woman. 
Each looked at their sand dollar in quiet reflection. A collective breath seemed to emanate from the circle. The people turned to the sun, a red ball of fire flattening on the horizon. There was a flash of light just before it disappeared, then darkness quickly descended. 
The young girl held her sand dollar high above her head. The others followed suit, though they did not know why. It just seemed the right thing to do. And as each person thought a silent prayer of their own making, the sand dollars began to glow then rise slowly from each person’s hand. The people watched in solemn silence as the shells rose higher and higher. And t they fancied that they could see a large celestial sand dollar, made of stars, high in the night sky. 
And now, one voice, that of the ranger, spoke aloud. “May the sand dollar bring peace to you this year. And always.”
The mood was broken. The people now looked at their empty hands and wondered. A man turned to the ranger to say, laughing, “We cannot return the shells to the beach, Ranger. Nor can we take them with us.”
She smiled. “No. But you can take the lesson of the sand dollar with you wherever you go.” 
Now the others all began to talk, to share, to shake hands and hug. The spirit of community that had begun in the diner that morning was now complete. Despite different politics, different religions, different ways of life, they now all shared a common philosophy. 
And when, much later, they went back to their homes, each carried 5 principles etched on their heart. 
 
MW
Christmas 2018

In the Bleak Midwinter

poem by Christina Rossetti, 1872 (2nd verse by MW)
melody by Gustav Holst 1906

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone,
Snow had fallen, snow on snow
Snow on snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

What can we do now, with our world as it is?
What is to be our part in all of this?
​We can show each other love, 
We can show we care.
We can seek light from above, 
Seek peace everywhere. 

Osprey Solstice
 
Two osprey fly against the darkening sky,
Fly down the setting Solstice sun.
I sing of day and night and osprey flight;
This shortest day of all is done.
 
Now comes the dark, the long,
The longest night of all.
But do not be afraid;
I hear the osprey call.
 
Tomorrow’s sun will rise
To shine its blazing ray
To where the osprey flies,
Over our Richmond Bay.
 
Soon he will visit every day
To wait for the one he loves the best,
The day she flies in from far away
To find her Richmond and her nest
 
The osprey year will then begin
As they mate and lay eggs again. 

​-MW

                                                             The Christmas Amaryllis
 
It was wartime and life was hard all over Holland. For the Breck family, who owned a nursery, life was especially difficult. Little Johan knew nothing of the politics of war. He only knew that instead of playing with his friends after school, he now raced home, took up a heavy sack and went door to door selling bulbs until the street lights came on at dusk. At first, he was able to sell enough bulbs to bring money home to help his family. He would even receive a groschen for his efforts that he could use any way he wished. But as winter set in, fewer and fewer people were buying.
 
"We have already planted our tulips," they would say. "Besides, we have no money. We do not even have coal to heat our house today." And they would shake their heads sadly. Little Johan was still young enough to have hope. He would say to himself,
"Perhaps tomorrow I will knock on the door of a rich family and they will buy my entire bag." When it did not happen, he would begin to hope anew the following day. In this way, he was able to continue peddling his wares day after day, week after week, despite the cold. For hope creates a warmth as real as fire.
 
But soon the money those bulbs brought in was gone, gone to a few pieces of coal and a meager sack of potatoes that must last them until Christmas. Johan's father had no more tulip bulbs to sell, but he had an idea. He had discovered a new bulb, one that could be planted inside. He would call them Christmas Amaryllis and teach customers how to plant them in a pot indoors to have them bloom during the holidays. Excited, he showed the bulbs to Johan and told him he might begin selling them right away.
 
The next day, when Johan came home from school, he immediately went out to sell the new bulbs. A few people were interested and bought them, but the rest said as usual that they had no money for food, let alone decorations. "What good are these bulbs," they said, "if they cannot be eaten?"
 
Finally, it was Nicklaas Eve. Johan put out his wooden shoe and filled it with hay. "I know my parents have no money and cannot buy me toys or even sweets," he said. "But surely Sinterklaas will remember me, for I have been a good boy this year.”
So saying, he went to bed happy, unaware of the sad look that passed between his parents.
 
The next day, Johan indeed found a few candies, a precious orange, and some nuts in his shoe. What pleased him even more was that the hay was gone, proving that Niklaas had come on his white steed. Johan went out early to sell his wares. It was a lucky day, for he sold enough Amaryllis bulbs that day to allow his mother to buy a special dinner for their Niklaas Day meal.
 
But the next day, Johan sold no bulbs, even though he worked long past sundown and went farther than ever. The next day was the same and the next day after that. Each day he came home with a sack full of bulbs and no coins in his pocket. 
 
Finally one day, he dared to climb the steep hill to the manor. This manor belonged to a man said to be very rich but also rather mean. Johan knocked timidly on the door. He was rebuffed by a curt "No" and a door slammed in his face. For the first time, Johan  began to lose hope. "Will there never be an end to this silly war?" he thought. 'Why must the adults fight when we children are starving?" 
 
One especially cold day Johan came home to find his father in a real temper. "Why is there nothing but potato soup on the table," he scolded his wife." And you," he said, pointing at Johan, who had shrugged as he entered to show he had no money, " what have you to say for yourself, you worthless son? Why can you not sell a single bulb? Why do you even bother coming home? Here, take these and throw them into the canal, for they are no good to me." And he threw the sack of bulbs back at Johan. 
 
Johan fled with the sack, heedless of the calls of his mother. Under the cold, moonlit sky, he went to the field next to the canal and got ready to throw the sack into the water. But as he hefted the heavy load onto his shoulder, he paused.
"These bulbs are not worthless," he said to himself. "Nor am I. My father does not mean what he says. It is the hunger and worry speaking. Neither I nor the bulbs have done anything wrong. We are not the ones fighting wars. No, I will not throw the bulbs away, for that would be akin to throwing myself into the canal."
 
He knelt down, found a sharp stick and dug a hole into the ground. Then he dropped a bulb into the hole. And another. And another. All that cold night, he dug with bare hands, and planted bulbs. He barely felt the cold or his hunger. Finally, just as the sun was rising, he finished and slowly walked home, knowing that he must return to his house, no matter what he might find. 
 
When he entered, his father was nowhere to be seen. His mother embraced him amid sobs. 
"I thought I had lost you, my son," she cried. "I feared that you had thrown yourself into the canal as well, or that you had fallen while heaving the heavy sack."
"No, mother, I am here now and all is well," he answered. "Only where is father?"
 
"He ran out after realizing what he had said," she replied. "Oh Johan, he didn't mean it, you know. It is just that he feels so bad that he cannot  help his family."
"I know, mother," Johan said. "And because I knew that, I did not throw myself in the canal, nor the bulbs."
"Then what did you do with them? And where did you spend the night?"
"For now, that is my secret," he said. "For I have an idea. But right now, mother, could you not heat me some potato soup and warm some bricks to put by my feet, for I have spent a very cold night."
.Johan did not go to school that day. Later in the morning, he said to his mother,
"I must go out to find father. For, no matter what he has said, we are a family and must stay together. If we cannot do so, what hope have we for our nations?" 
He did not have to go far, for he found his father in the shed at the end of the property.
"Father, come in from the cold," he said.
"No, my son, for I have hurt you and your mother. And I have failed to provide for you. I am not worthy to be your father."
"You are my father is what I know and all is forgiven," Johan said. "As for providing, we will find a way. But it will be easier to do so if we stay together and help each other."
 
For the next few weeks, the little family managed somehow. They  were grateful that they at least had enough firewood to warm their house and the potatoes lasted so that they might at least have soup for supper. Johan would disappear for an hour or so every day and would not tell his parents where he had been. They let him be, for after all, he was now almost  a man. 
 
Then it was Christmas Eve. Along with the other townspeople, the little family dressed warmly and walked to church. It was a clear, crisp evening, with the stars glistening in the sky. All was hushed as the village walked in unison to their little church. As the pastor began to talk, a tall, well-dressed man entered and sat in the back. A few turned and stared, but most just let him be. 
 
The church was warm and well-lit with candles. The congregation prayed fervently for peace and all felt a renewed hope as they left the church. Johan walked a bit ahead of the others, lost in his own thoughts. When he reached the fork in the road, he took the path to the left. 
"No, Johan, " a man shouted. "That is the way to the canal. You need to go right."
"Go right if you wish," Johan answered. "I have something to see. Come with me if you wish to see it as well."
 
Well of course they were curious, so they followed him. As they neared the field by the canal, they saw a red glow in the air. At the edge of the field, they all stopped in wonder. For there before them was a field full of flowers. And these were no ordinary flowers. Tall stalks rose from the ground topped by large blossoms, four to a stalk. Some of the flowers were dark red, others pure white, and still others striped red and white. 
One woman recognized the flowers, for she was one of the few to have bought a bulb from Johan. "These are Amaryllis, the Christmas bulb," she exclaimed. 'But how did they come to be here?" 
 
Johan stepped forward. "I planted them," he said. "No one would-or could- buy them, so they are my Christmas gift to you." 
"But this is my property," a deep voice said from the shadows. A man stepped forward. It was the tall well-dressed man, the  man from the manor. 
Johan felt his heart fall. He had not thought of whose property this might be. He had only wanted to plant bulbs. Would he be arrested?
The man continued. "One night, I could not sleep," he said. "So I walked down by the canal. I saw someone digging in the ground.  I came back the next day and saw him checking the holes. And every day since, this young lad has come here to check on his bulbs. Tonight, I came here to see, and behold, the flowers had all bloomed in unison. So I came to church with you. And am with you now. Come here, boy. "
 
He beckoned to Johan and hugged him tightly. "Will you forgive me for slamming the door in your face?" he asked. "I could not bear the sight of another man's son. For my son and wife died a year ago. They are buried here." He pointed to a small grave marker at the other end of the field. "I came here that night to be near them. And saw you instead. But you came to make something beautiful. You have given them- and me- and all of us the finest Christmas we could have imagined. For that I thank you. What can I do for you in return?"
 
"There is nothing to forgive," Johan answered, in a strong voice, for he was now a man and not afraid of others. "And I ask nothing for myself in return. But I do ask for the others.  These people are of your village. Many have too little to eat and their houses are cold. Help those in most need. The rest of us will manage on our own."
 
"But of course," the rich man answered. "I will provide. For you have shown me that a community must stick together, just as the flowers bloom in unison. Tomorrow, all of you are invited to my house for Christmas dinner. After that, I will see to your needs."
Well, what a hue and cry ensued. The townspeople surrounded the rich man, men slapping him on the back, women kissing him, and children surrounding him as though he were Sinterklaas himself. 
 
The next day, all climbed the hill to his house where they celebrated Christmas as they never had before. Despite wartime rationing, there was plenty of meat for all, platters of vegetables, cakes and pies, and hearty ale. But best of all, for the children, there was Sinterklaas, regal and tall, asking them if they had been good and handing out gifts to all. Yes, Sinterklaas came twice that year, for he said they had all been extra good.
 
As for Johan, when the war ended, he left town to study botany. But he returned after that, for he missed his family and his town, and he joined his father in the business. It became a successful nursery once more, sending bulbs not only to Europe, but around the world. And at Christmas, it always featured the Amaryllis, which became one of its most popular items. 

This story is based on a notice I read in the Breck Bulb catalogue about hard times in Holland and the development of the Amaryllis Christmas bulb. 

-MW
 
 
                                                               

                                          The Violin Maker
 
Once long ago, or perhaps not so long ago, a man named Ifshin had a violin shop. Ifshin was well-known for his fine repairs of violins, violas, cellos and basses. String players from miles around came to him to have their instruments repaired. 
 
But his real love was to make the instruments. He loved crafting from scratch, choosing the finest wood, sculpting the parts with love and care, and tailoring each instrument to its owner's individual needs. He would meet each person and talk to them, getting to know their personality and musical style, so that he could craft an instrument that fit that person and no one else. "An instrument should fit its player like a glove fits the hand," he would say.
 
Unfortunately, times were hard and there were few demands for hand-crafted instruments. Not even the musicians from the large orchestras had the money to pay for an instrument such as these. So Ifshin contented himself with repairs, which brought in just enough money to feed himself and his small family. 
 
But then times became even harder. One summer, the weather was unusually cold and the crops in the Autumn were poor. People had scarce enough money to buy food and clothing, let alone to pay for repairs to musical instruments. So they continued to play their old instruments and when the instruments broke, the people put them away and worked longer hours instead. Indeed, no one was really in the mood for song and dance.
 
Ifshin, his wife and young son fell on hard times indeed, until one day in November he said to his wife, 
"If the holiday season does not bring in more work, I will have to close the shop and seek other employment."
"But this is your passion," she answered. "You love this work. How could you give it up to take on an ordinary job?"
"My first responsibility is to my family," he replied. "If that means doing a job I do not enjoy, so be it. I must take care of you and Jacob and the new one to come." He patted his son on the head and rubbed his wife's belly. 
 
A week passed and still no work. Then the last day of November, the bell on the shop jangled and in walked a tall gray-haired man, dressed impeccably in a fine suit. 
"My name is Mr. Ma," he said. "I play first cello in the city symphony. I have heard that you are the finest repair shop in the entire region. I have traveled miles to find you and ask you a favor. My cello is lost and I need a new one very soon. I am to play in an important concert on the last night of Chanukah and need a cello as fine as the one I have lost. You are my last hope. Can you make me a cello by then?"
 
"I will see what I can do," Ifshin replied. He made a pot of tea and invited the man to sit awhile so that he could get to know him better. Many hours later, the cellist left and Ifshin, though the hour was late, began work on the cello. It was lucky for him that he had the right wood on hand and could begin right away crafting the instrument. As night fell, his wife came looking for him and he explained what he was doing.
 
"I must work night and day," he told her, "for if I can finish this instrument in time, the man will pay well and our problems will be solved for awhile anyway." Secretly, he did not see how he could make such an instrument so quickly, but he would do his best. For his family depended on it.
 
All that week and into the next, he worked, stopping only to quickly eat the meals his wife brought to him and to sleep a few hours.  He scarcely saw his wife and young son. On the first night of Chanukah, he laid out all of the finished pieces, ready to assemble.   
 
His wife came to him and said,
"You must take a few hours to be with us, for it is the first night and we must say the prayers." So he said the prayers and lit the candle with his family, then he ate with them and even played a bit of dreidl with his son. When his wife and son went to bed, he returned to the shop to keep working. But he was worried. It had seemed to him that his wife was not well.
 
 Early in the morning, he went to bed and slept until dawn. He looked at his wife as she lay sleeping. No, something was not right. He called the midwife to come and then he sat with his wife, bringing her tea and wiping her face with a damp cloth. 
 
The midwife came and said the baby was ready to come but could not. All they could do was wait and pray. So Ifshin sat all that day and night with his wife, helping as he could and taking care of their son at the same time. The halfmade cello was forgotten. The next morning, his wife seemed a bit better. So as she slept, he crept into the shop to try to finish the instrument. He stood still in wonder. For there lay the cello, already half-assembled. Had he done it in his sleep? 
 
But Ifshin had no time to wonder, for his son was calling him. He ran back to the house to help his wife, who was hurting once more. And again he forgot the cello. For five days, he sat by his wife, again forgetting all but his family. He tended to her, took care of their son, and every night lit the Chanukah candles. 
 
On the seventh day of Chanukah, a knock came at the door. The cellist stood there expectantly. 
"I have come to see if my cello is ready," he said. "For I must have it tomorrow. The concert is in the evening and I must get to know the instrument first."
 
"Come out to the shop," Ifshin told the man, thinking that he would confess to him there, out of hearing of his wife and son. But when they came into the shop, the cello lay there all finished. Ifshin did not know what to think. He could not bear to disappoint the man now. "All is finished except the bow," he said. "Come back tomorrow and I will try to have it ready as well. If not, you may withhold the pay." 
 
The cellist agreed, saying he would come early the next day. Ifshin wanted to start working on the bow right then and there, but he dared not leave his wife. Instead, he ran back to the house, where she lay groaning in pain. 
It was a hard night. The midwife spent the entire night trying to get the baby to come out. And finally, just after midnight, the baby was born. She was a healthy baby after all. And Ifshin's wife, although very tired, was sure to recover, the midwife said. 
 
Early in the morning, Ifshin took his son to the shop, stopping to give thanks for his family's health. Maybe he could still finish the bow. When he unlocked the door to the shop, his son said, "Father, listen!"
 
From the door of the dark shop they heard a giggling then a voice said, "We must leave now. For Ifshin will be coming in and he must not see us. Happy Chanukah!"
Then all was silent. Ifshin turned on the light. There lay the cello on his work table, along with a fine bow. The bow was strung and the cello's strings already placed. 
"Who was it?" his son asked. 
"I do not know, Jacob," he answered. "But they have done us a great favor. And for that, I will always be grateful."
 
Just then there was a knock on the door and the cellist entered. He was dressed in his concert clothes.
"Pray do you have the cello ready?" he asked. "I will take it without the bow. I can borrow a bow, but I need the cello. I must travel to the city within the hour."


"Here it is, the bow as well," Ifshin said. "I am sorry to have taken so long but all's well that ends well, no?"
"Oh thank you," the cellist exclaimed. He pressed a wad of bills into Ifshin's hands. 
"Perhaps some day you can come hear the orchestra," he said. "You will be my guest. Or if you are unable to come, I will bring the cello and play for you alone."
 
The cellist left. Ifshin placed some coins on the table with a note. "To my helpers," it said. "With my eternal thanks." Then he and his son returned to the house. 
 
That night, Ifshin and his family celebrated the best night of Chaunkah they had ever had.  There was plenty of hearty chicken soup to strengthen his wife, latkes to fill his son's stomach, and laughter all around.
 
 That night, after all had gone to bed, Ifshin crept once more into his shop. Again he heard voices. 
"Look," one said. "He left us money."
"Well, isn't that nice," the other said. "But you know what I would really like? A violin just my size. Why should the people have all the fun? If we can make a cello, we could play one too."
"Oh yes, a violin for you and a cello for me!"
 
"I will do it," Ifshin called into the dark. "But I need to know more about you. Leave me a bit of yourselves and I will try to make instruments to fit you."
He heard a scrambling. "Oh no, he heard us. We must go! Wait, he said to leave something. Well, here, take off your coat. And my shoes. And our gloves. That should do it. Good-bye, Ifshin! We'll return on Purim for our reward!"
"Good bye," Ifshin replied. "And thank you, whoever you are!"
 
Ifshin was true to his word. He carefully crafted a little violin and cello, sized to fit the clothes he found. On Purim, he put them in his shop and the next day they were gone. He never heard from the helpers again, but it seemed to him sometimes when he worked late in his shop that he heard the music of two little instruments. Then he would smile to himself and hum along. 
 
His wife recovered, his baby daughter grew into a fine little girl, her brother became a great helper to his father, and the shop thrived as the cellist from the city sent all of his colleagues to Ifshin. 
 
The cellist himself became a good friend and would always come stay with the family at Chanukah, bringing his cello with him. 
 
-MW

Simple Gifts played by YoYo Ma on YouTube. (Short clips, not for profit, are allowed for use).

​The holiday season is upon us once again. More and more, I meet people who wish the season would just vanish, people who seek to escape by travelling or going to the beach or mountains. Others observe the trappings but ignore the deeper meanings. As our culture enters its twilight era, beliefs once common to the culture have broken apart, its citizens follow their individual paths and the common ground has become but a commercial enticement. 
I, however, have loved this season since I was a child. For me, it has always represented family and home, light and music, and hope. As I have aged, I have turned more and more to the natural world’s representation of this hope, Winter Solstice. The eternal (eternal to us mortals, at least) pattern of the seasons, the flight of our Earth around our life-giving star we call the Sun. Long before Judaism, Christianity and other religions, humans celebrated the return of the sun and longer days, with ceremonies involving light and music. 
This year, I have decided to post once a week during this season. Some stories and poems were written at another date, but are some of my favorites and still timely, others were written for this year. It is a bleak year in many ways, but hope is always there, if we only seek it. Goodwill can be found if we practice it ourselves.
​ I begin with the long view. We humans are but a speck in the Universe, we are not as important as we think we are. We may perish, by our own hands or astrological events, the Earth may even disappear with us, but there are many stars in the sky, many other suns with planets revolving around them, even many Universes perhaps. And life surely exists elsewhere in that vast expanse. We are but a blip on the time/space continuum. So I urge you not to see this post as negative but as representing the ultimate in hope and optimism. And I promise, later posts this month will represent hope and peace closer to home. 
So…

..... there was a star. Around this star revolved eight large planets, and some smaller ones. The planets that were the farthest away were icy, with barren terrains. The closest ones were fiery hot But one planet, the third from the sun, was different. It was a beautiful blue and green, for it had oxygen, water on the surface, and it sustained life. And this planet was called Earth.
After a long time, that life evolved into many different forms, called plants and animals. And those animals became more and more diverse, until one day a mammal called a human emerged. This human was one of the more intelligent animals on Earth and soon the humans dominated. They began to live together in mutual assistance. They hunted and gathered their food, then they began to grow it. They built dwellings in which to live. They not only lived, they watched themselves live. And with their intelligent, creative minds, they became scientists, historians, artists and musicians. They developed philosophies and religions. 
With all of these pursuits, the humans made an imprint on the land. Cities were built. Beautiful castles and magnificent cathedrals were created. But cities created problems too. The dirt streets became filthy with sewage and disease was rampant. The humans solved these problems with ingenious designs. They developed sewer systems, water systems, they harnessed electricity for light and energy. 
Humans even figured out ways to quickly travel long distances. But to do so, they extracted oil from the Earth. Then they invented solutions to deal with the dirty air that ensued. They paved roads to make travel easier. But this pavement increased the temperature, so the humans had to invent ways to deal with the increased heat. As the humans conquered disease and death from childbirth or accidents, their population increased, putting more pressure on the land and water of Earth. But the ever ingenious humans worked tirelessly to counter these effects. 
Finally, however, the effects became too fast and frequent for the humans to keep up. They watched helplessly as their hard efforts had little result. Divisions grew among the people, wars broke out, and more and more, they were in despair. Some turned to religion, others just tried harder, more finally gave up, and a few planned their escape. But all was to no avail. 
The sun burned brighter and hotter than ever. It blazed so hot that no human invention could cool the air. Day after day, the humans watched with increasing fear and despair. There was nothing more they could do. All work halted, children stopped playing, all simply stood and looked at the unearthly sky. The few climbed into their spaceship in a vain attempt to find another home elsewhere in the solar system. 
Finally, one evening, it was clear the end was nigh. And the humans knelt to pray or embraced in despair. But just as the sun sent a large flare that would wipe out all surface life on Earth, the humans looked into the darkening sky and saw a star. A star they had never seen before. And then they knew. During their demise, despite the scorching of their beloved planet Earth, a new star had been born. A new star, soon to have its own planets. And one of those planets would have just the right temperature and elements to create new life. From that life would grow a new world. And hope would be renewed. 
​

The Intricate Art of Weaving
 
Interfaces, relationships. Seeking common bonds, weaving cords across the division. My torn intercostal muscles have to knit, with just enough exercise, not too much, steady, listening for hurt, and heeding, easing off for a while, then resuming.  
So too, with relationships. Exercise, keep trying, weave common bonds, don’t overdo it but don’t coddle either. Listen, find just the right push. Then repeat it all again on the morrow. Until the knit is complete.
And too, with humans and nature. Many have learned not to trample, to respect, to form bonds with the natural world, but we are ever learning how we unknowingly do damage. We keep trying to build a web from us to them,  but  must constantly repair the breaks in that web.
And there will always remain a small sensitive place, where the heal will never be complete. 

A fugue is the musical version of weaving. Several voices running alongside each other, meeting in harmony, then veering off again, and ending in a final harmonic whole. The Toccata and Fugue by Johann Sebastian Bach is a master of this form. 

​Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor, Hannes Kästner organist, Thomaskirche, Leipzig, Germany. Posted on Youtube by MovieMongerH2 in 2010, in public domain. 

I know neither the seasonal cycle that governs wild animals' lives, nor the clock that governs human lives. I know only my daily pattern. There is comfort in patterns.