Bluebonnet Syrup

Last October I wrote about incidents in California that led me to recommend civility. After two more weeks there, I have one final suggestion: grace.

Here is the trip, north to south. Sacramento is lovely. The Capitol building, modeled on the one in Washington, D.C., has interior chambers that look virtually identical to the ones in Austin. The family had gone to San Francisco the Saturday before to see the movie of the moment, Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey, at the AMC Metreon, one of the largest true IMAX theaters in the country. My grandson was online the minute tickets became available. But we went to Sacramento for a smaller IMAX. The film may get its own blog. Yes, California has the largest homeless population in the country. Yes, I’ve heard about the street filth. We just didn’t see it.

Next, I saw Macbeth in a modern verse “translation” at Shakespeare by the Sea. So, English to English? If you say translation, maybe people will think it was Old English in the original? I don’t know, but the audience was widely diverse in all demographics, and appreciative. The five ambulances heard throughout the performance may have added context. The famous passages were unchanged, so the “translator” wasn’t crazy.

I don’t like musicals, but I finally agreed to see Hadestown and was surprised, amazed even, at the performances and the depth of the story. Anaïs Mitchell weaves together the myths of Orpheus, Eurydice, Hades, and Persephone into something closer to opera than Broadway. Hades and Persephone rule Hades (though she drinks heavily at her speakeasy). Orpheus falls in love with Eurydice, who goes willingly into Hades for food security. Hermes narrates. There aren’t many tunes to hum, but something transforms the familiar into something more personal.

People watching, the greatest fun. In Los Angeles, they are observably better looking than the ones in northern California. The ones in Marysville, for example, looked like those in any small Texas town. Southern California—wealthier, busier, more scenic—attracts beautiful people. In the upscale store Erewhon, I was startled to see a stunning young woman, long blond hair, tanned, in a fashionable linen blouse and slacks with her eight and three-quarter months pregnant belly on display. Uncovered, on display. It was, well, beautiful, but I doubt they do that in Marysville. This video satirizes the store, in fact the one I visited. Actually, I didn’t think some of the prices or products were unreasonable. Maybe next time.

Our last outing was to the Hollywood Bowl for Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue and Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony. Conrad Tao was the pianist, and he was…energetic. This video is that performance, though probably illegal. Here he is in Venice.

The Shostakovich is performed frequently, but open to interpretation. Written in response to Party criticism, it marks a shift in the composer’s approach, at least superficially. The audience reaction was ecstatic—which was itself problematic for Soviet authorities. Is everything political? That unsourced quotation—“All human relationships are based on a struggle for power”— comes to mind.

But let’s just consider a tiny element: tempo. Marin Alsop took the final movement at an astonishingly slow tempo compared with Leonard Bernstein’s famous recording. The difference completely changes the emotional effect. Here she is with the Swedish Radio Symphony. Go to 37:48. It’s the last 13 minutes of the piece. Here is Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic. His version is just under 9 minutes. Calm versus breakneck.

It was at the Bowl that my theme for California developed for this last version. Just as I was remarking that we would be standing to sing the national anthem if in Dallas, that was exactly what we were invited to do. I’m sure out of thousands, not everyone did, and not everyone had their hands over their hearts. But it was moving—and surprising.

But that’s not all. Some distance over on a hill to the right was a large, lighted cross. Again, I was surprised. Someone in this town had put it up, kept it up, and paid for lighting. Impressive.

So, give them some grace. Patience or mercy, even pity if you must. They have real struggles. Gas is almost $8.00 up near Lake Tahoe, $6 in LA. Electricity and water, also high. Problems abound, but can we not say they’re crazy out there? That makes us unkind and shallow. Let’s disagree, civilly. It’s not as if we are moving there after all…Who wants to pay for grocery bags?

Reviews signal their level of spoilers. In Disclosure Day (2026), the title is itself a spoiler. Yes, something gets disclosed. Yes, it’s aliens. We see a few, but we’ve seen them before. If you want full disclosure, this review from the sci-fi magazine Reactor is very long, very detailed, and very opinionated–but not very negative. The writer uses the metaphor of a blender into which religion and aliens are thrown, “with mixed results.”

My take is that the film uses Christian (specifically Catholic) and Biblical imagery while denying an overt religious message. In fact, the premise is that disclosure will cause humanity to lose its faith. The secular parallel is that chaos will ensue. Neither comes off as particularly compelling. What’s left, I believe, is an unintentionally Christian result.

The “why now” of this movie is frustrating. Is there a need to hear once more that we aren’t alone? Spielberg has Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) and E.T. the Extraterrestrial (1982). Close Encounters uses piles of mashed potatoes and communication through musical tones, i.e., the universal language of mathematics. E.T. adds urgency (hide him from the feds!) and cute sweetness (the stuffed animals scene). The aliens are obviously superior to humans; both sets are the “Greys” humanoid but with large, dark, shiny eyes. Sometimes noses, often not. Close Encounters does have a spiritual side—communication from beyond that is unexplainable; the alien who comes out first has unnaturally long limbs that it spreads out like a Christ figure. A religious service precedes the group’s trip to the mother ship, nondenominational of course, and, oddly, sunglasses in the night.

Let’s start with names.

Emily Blunt excels as Margaret Fairchild, and I expect nominations to follow. “Margaret” means “pearl,” with ancient roots in Persia. Her last name, Fairchild—seems allegorical.

Josh O’Connor’s Daniel Kellner is even more obvious. One of the oldest names in continuous use, “Daniel” means “God is my judge” in Hebrew. His last name is “Kellner,” which means “waiter” in modern German, but its older association is broader—more like the steward of a castle. Jane means “God is gracious.” Noah means “rest.” Hugo derives from words associated with mind, heart, spirit, and intellect.

Technically, WARDEX is an acronym for Waived Reporting, Development, and Extraction, per one source who cites the writer, David Koepp, and an actual government term. So vast amounts of truth are “waived” only to be disclosed by our heroes.  Margaret bexomes an Eve, sharing forbidden knowledge that promises to edify.  To “ward” is to protect or guard. An X is, of course, a cross.

Next, overt Christian references. A crucifix: the body of Christ is there. Daniel’s girlfriend, Jane, wears one and uses it to puncture her hand when Noah is “diving” into her consciousness. The pain mitigates his power, and she uses a kitchen knife to inflict more pain in her palm when Noah tries to make her slit Daniel’s throat. The term stigmata usually refers to bleeding palms and other sites associated with those on Christ’s body. Jane’s are self-inflicted, not miraculous, but still a powerful image. (

Daniel has his own experience with a cross. He has been on an unexpected phone call from Margaret when a crop circle appears. Later, the same symbols appear on an alien object. The effect is startling and visually exciting, though its relevance is sketchy. Celtic crosses have circles, the symbol of eternity.

A cardinal flies into Margaret’s apartment. After that, she can speak Russian. That connection is not explained, but cardinals are thought to represent visits from loved ones who have died or angels. Margaret’s childhood bedroom has a mobile of cardinals, in case we’ve forgotten, perhaps.

And there are the phrases: In a series of clicks and oddness, Margaret says, “Don’t be afraid of what you don’t know.” In the Bible, “Fear not” or an equivalent appears many times, depending on the translation, from 75-103. (Not 365 as someone announced.) So, in whatever language, we’ve been told this often.

An awkward scene in which a woman kneels and genuflects in front of Margaret elicits her firm, “I will not be anyone’s religion!” Heavenly messengers often follow “Fear not” with the sentiment that they are not to be worshiped.

My favorite few seconds–the tune Margaret hums in bed. The tune is “Someday My Prince Will Come” from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937). It seems a very odd choice. The movie is 89 years old. Yes, it’s streaming on Disney+, and I’m out of touch, but how many little girls can sing that song? It even seems decidedly out of step with current thinking about romance. So, therefore, I am adding a Christian perspective. Yes, we are waiting for a Prince to come, the Prince of Peace. With Spielberg’s world descending into war and chaos, it’s as good a time as any, better than most.

But do we get that Prince? No. But that alien at the end—what an entrance! We’ve been waiting for a truck to bring something mysterious to the broadcast. They roll in a zippered container that looks like a clothes storage wardrobe, unzip it slowly, and stand back. An obviously elderly alien emerges—fragile, struggling to walk, but ready to communicate. He whispers something to Daniel who then whispers to Margaret. She then reduces it all to the single word, “Listen.” The reference may be to the Hebrew Sh’ma, which means “Hear.” Observant Jews recite this prayer morning and night, from Deuteronomy 6: 4-5 “Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.” Hear a good explanation here.

The assumption is that this alien is a “rescue” from earlier torture. Hugo has preserved him. No, that’s an unfortunate word. Kept him protected like a fur coat in cold storage? But to get metaphorical, that preservation, that reveal, reminds me of what has happened to faith for the secular world. Out of sight, a relic so out of use that it could collapse at any moment. Its message is to two “fair children,” like those who are to lead us, according to Scripture, first in the revelatory Isaiah 11:6 “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them.”

How intentional was any of this? Usage is not the same as messaging. Someone has said the lack of other beings in the universe and their presence are equally terrifying. Maybe. I think a better editor would have helped with clarity. But when you’re a genius, well, who would that person be?

Do I believe in aliens currently on Earth? No. Are there other beings in the universe? Yes. More later…but first the description of Christianity from The Sheep Detectives (2026) as they pass a church, spoken with great confidence:

Sheep: What is that? 

Ram: That is where God lives. 

Sheep: Who is God? 

Ram: He’s a Shepherd. And also a Lamb. And He’s invisible. And He damns things. 

Sheep: Dams things? Like, what beavers do? 

Ram: Yes. 

Sheep: So, God is a Shepherd and also a Lamb and a beaver who is invisible? 

Ram: Yes. And on Sundays He becomes bread, and they eat Him. 

Sheep: Poor God. 

That movie was another possible review. It’s funny and uplifting. The sheep learn the realities of death, they solve the mystery, and one sees his dead shepherd as he dies. But I think that director and writer knew exactly what they were doing.

Last evening, I was invited to an event billed as a conversation between Van Jones and Florence Shapiro. Bless her heart, she didn’t need to say much. Jones is a brilliant, experienced speaker who launched immediately into a history lesson, a personal explanation of his connection to the Jewish community, a forceful condemnation of stupid people (his term), an explanation of how that happens, and a call to action. Shapiro lent her support and applauded his message. Let’s look at his points.

First, the history of Black and Jewish alliances goes back to 1909 and the founding of the NAACP. Research names one of the co-founders as Henry Moskowitz, a civil rights activist. Jones finds the association to be a natural one: two minority, marginalized groups needed to work together then and still do.

Second, Jones talked about his time at Yale. White students didn’t think he belonged, Black peers resented him for “making them look bad,” and he was angry at everyone. Shapiro guided him to talk about his godmother. Although he didn’t name her, Dottie Zellner (thanks, research tools) took him by the hand, literally and figuratively, and changed his perspective. A white Jewish civil rights activist, she worked alongside Julian Bond, a name Jones knew well. She took him to Israel. She changed his life. During his description of the relationship, he wept.

Fourth, yes, I know, but bear with me. Out of order on purpose. Jones noticed that Jewish friends were not responding to texts after October 7^th. He didn’t know why they were saying things like “I just can’t talk right now.” Finally, someone did tell him what had happened. Before he knew details, he assumed there had been a military skirmish on the West Bank. But when he heard “Gaza,” he knew it was Hamas, whom he described as “a terrible Nazi organization” who would, of course, target the “progressive, liberal, peace-loving, and social justice-oriented people” on the kibbutzim.

Third, Jones argued that people speak too confidently about subjects they barely understand, then repeat slogans with no historical background. He used the word “stupid” a lot. This short video summarizes and expands his remarks. He noted that many Black Americans have long distrusted wars they see as unjust, beginning with Vietnam. But his other points (Hamas, hostages, hate crimes, and homelands) offer what he sees as both common ground and a way forward.

Fifth, what’s to be done? The Black/Jewish Coalition of the American Jewish Committee has hosted Jones’ Exodus Over Dinner at which leaders foster dialogue between the communities. He reminded us that algorithms are not our friends. They are calculated to boost endorphins, not educate us or even help us. The greatest psychological and entrepreneurial minds are working on ways to keep us scrolling, not educate us. Beware.

In conclusion, does Van Jones speak for all Black people? No. Does he say things he shouldn’t? Apparently. He has to apologize regularly. Do I agree with everything he believes? No. He doesn’t expect that of anyone. On this topic, I found his insights persuasive, and I hope to do more to support this alliance.

Last year at this time, I was pleased to receive an email with “Congratulations” in the Subject line. I’d been chosen as one of the 30 poets for the Common Language Project. Yesterday, I received another email with the name of the project as the subject and the message “We know that a rejection email can be disappointing…” This link contains the rules, the 30 required words, and the names of the winners—whose names are, in fact, quite interesting.

The truth is that I thought my poem for 2024 was much better. I can barely read it even now without a catch in my voice. Last year, not so much. It is the same this year. I think it’s better than last year. Everything is subjective. That’s not entirely true, of course, but in winner selection, I’m comfortable with the idea.

The premise of the poem on time is that not only does it not exist; it will also end. That’s just physics, as well as my belief system. The “spots of time” with the two little girls’ dresses is clear in my mind—the place, the time of day, the feelings. A package arrived at my grandmother’s house from a family friend and former employee who cooked and cared for her children (I’m going to leave that for effect to see if anyone catches it.) This woman and her sisters quilted and canned vegetables and continued to cook gloriously. These dresses were blue and pink gingham. Whichever one was to be mine was not the one I wanted. That I was three years older than my sister and therefore bigger did not matter to my young brat brain. I have repented.

Below are my prize-losing poems. I’ll collect them elsewhere.

 

A Brief Future of Time

In our minds, we were all there at the crack of it—

Big Bang! a rush of time and matter and light woven, breaking

A threshold of Nothing and by extension: Us, drawn, dragging

Into not enough of it, wasted, “Time’s up—put your pencils down.”

The ache of losing it, the tarnish of bright futures as they veer

Into catastrophes of skies gone grey then black then…

An interruption from soil left fallow that will fold again into another

Nothing—something—nothing—over and over and over?

A dial that is cracked—repaired—cracked—again and again?

The rhythm of a meter to quicken—faster—faster—ending—repeating?

Or perhaps not. No branches yield multiverses, no fishing pole

With a line dropped, a long lengthening line bobbing into eternity

Down and down and down eternally.

Instead, time may be, literally, nothing. Capital N Nothing,

Arranged for us to enter and exit, stories to begin and end

With us trapped—clocked—snapped in its (our) middles.

Einstein’s stubborn illusions made heavy: all friction marks gone.

Or Wordsworth’s spot of time binding generations:

Remember those dresses that came in the mail, wrapped in brown paper?

Pink, blue ginghams with flowers chicken-scratched Xs round the hems?

And I wanted the blue, so did you, and we argued? I’m sorry, now.

Now, I’d keenly rejoice if a dress came, gifted, to and from, with love.

Remember?

Eternity is a place to stay, to harbor, to be and be and

Stay/on/a/static/axis and be forever a never-setting sun but

Home

Closing the chapter, done and over

At Home. At Long Last, Home.

 

 

“Eve” deleted and unpublished so eligible for submission to Plough contest.

I just finished The Count of Monte Cristo on PBS, but I haven’t read the book. From what Wikipedia says, there are dramatic changes. The novel is over 1000 pages, and I found it a little tedious—the 20 pages I read. The graphic for this post reflects the idea of hope which is, in fact, the message that Edmond Dantés (the Count) receives from the priest who befriends him in prison. It balances the other one: “If you seek revenge, dig your own grave first.” The action of the novel shows the results of his actively seeking revenge from the guilty by depriving them of hope.

If Dantès shows us what happens when hope is stripped away, the conversations I heard this week pointed in the opposite direction—how it might be restored. Twice this week, I had the opportunity to hear Governor Spencer Cox of Utah and his wife, Abby. The state has a good reputation for its laws on non-discrimination and religious freedom. They were the first to institute 988 as a universal hotline for suicide prevention. Gov. Cox was the first candidate to sponsor a joint ad with his opponent in which they agree to accept results of the election. It’s a minute worth watching.

The work of Robert Putnam figured in their remarks, as did that of Jonathan Haidt. Bowling Alone and The Anxious Child were the two most quoted works. And Marcus Aurelius, Blaise Pascal (sort of—the idea of a “God-shaped” hole in our hearts.) Finally, Yuval Levin, especially his last two books, A Time to Build and American Covenant.

The takeaways are more cogent and doable than one might think for a politician. Charismatic but not superficial, challenging but not impossible. Cox’s initiative as chair of the governor’s association is called Disagree Better. It’s now a nonprofit with ideas and outreach. He isn’t saying not to disagree. Indeed, he says disagree more. Just leave out the hate.

• A sense of community has been lost but can be found. Read Putnam.
• Children are in serious danger. Read Haidt.
• Reaching across the aisle, standing up against hate, and finding better ways to disagree will take effort. Talking about “those people” and hating the haters are two behaviors to avoid. Read Cox. His Off Ramp: How to be a Peacemaker in an Age of Contempt comes out in September.
• Don’t worry about changing the world. Help your neighbor. Hate flees service to others. Change your town.
• The pendulum is beginning to swing from the me/I to the we. And we can help that effort.

Spencer Cox and his wife are 50. I remember when that sounded old. Now, I think he should run for president. I told him so. Does he want to? No. Neither does his wife. Watch the video. There’s something in his eyes, and it’s rather beautiful. I didn’t tell him that.

The real thing is a “polymath: a person of encyclopedic learning.” Someone who knows a lot about lots of things. The “math” doesn’t have anything to do with numbers (which mathematics doesn’t either, technically), coming from PIE root *mendh- “to learn.” One of my favorite sentences is “I was told there would be no math.” The origin is Saturday Night Live, in fact. Chevy Chase often portrayed Pres. Gerald Ford. In this 1976 sketch, Jane Curtin asks him a complicated economic question during a debate. His response is, well, priceless.

My purpose in writing today is 3-fold. There is a lecture coming up on Wednesday by Dr. Scott Dupree, described as a brilliant polymath. He will speak on “Three Masterpieces That Changed the Twentieth Century: Picasso, Stravinsky, and Eliot.” I’m going because I know a little about all of them. He, as a polymath, will know more. Come if you can.

So, yes, I know about art, music, literature, just not at the calculus level. More at the add, subtract, multiply, and divide level, which is arithmetic. The higher functions, not so much.

Next, let me tell you how my Monday has been. Usually, I keep it as a day for self-recrimination, a fruitful pursuit, but today we took a different direction.

First, I found my flutes, which I had looked everywhere for. I know myself well enough to know I wouldn’t have put them someplace out of sight. Literally, out of sight is out of mind for me. (reference: the Ziploc of missing diamonds). Today, searching the car for the third time, I spotted a black bag stuffed behind a tall ladder in the garage. I could’ve sworn I’d brought the bad inside. But no. I am deeply thankful to have them though I am now somewhat interested in what my favorite dealer/repair shop, Rivard Brothers, has on hand—a Tomasi B-foot with a gold lip plate for not too much. Very pretty.

Then I went to Costco for gas, dropped my credit card in the car, figured out how to use the app, put the nozzle in the tank, heard a click (thought I did), replaced the nozzle, and proceeded to drive off. Then I realized I didn’t know if the app had paid. I went inside to check—no transaction. The Costco person told me about police showing up at their door after her newly-licensed daughter thought she’d paid for gas but hadn’t. A note was going on my card. Which I still can’t find.

I left the counter, noticed my bra strap had come disconnected and was dangling out of my shirt, bought pot pies for the Demolition Service, returned to my car, and drove away. After maybe a mile, I noticed that, in fact, I had not bought gas. No wonder! I went back, bought gas (and an azalea for $12.99!), went back to the desk to avoid a note on my card, and returned safely home. So far.

Third, good news. I read a book by Steven Pressfield, The War of Art (2002). As a polyarithmetic, I know its title is based on the famous Chinese classic, The Art of War by Sun Tzu, which is all I know about it. The modern book has me dead to rights: In a nutshell, I’m my own worst enemy. Which I knew.

It’s a short book. After reading it, I worked three straight days and edited three poetry cycles. I dug out the fourth, which is much longer. Once I’m finished, I’ll be ready for that long-neglected, often-promised Amazon book.

Obviously, I wrote this instead. Tomorrow …

I didn’t say I was never going to blog. A situation has arisen (a beginning I wouldn’t allow for a writing student) which I can share.

The word “brag” is one we often use as if it has a negative connotation. One ought not brag. Remember Violet Beauregarde from Willy Wonka? Yes, she turns into a blueberry but she’s also a competitive little braggart. One doesn’t want to be a Violet.

Last year, Thanks-Giving Square sponsored The 40 Virtues Project for schools. Students could earn pretty coins for participating and exhibiting their understanding. Here are the 40.

Benjamin Franklin famously had 13, here and with explanations. He struggled with one in particular. He was a bit proud…

Associated with the school initiative, the Square offered the job of curating 40 matching poems to Dallas poet laureate Mag Gabbert. There was a reading of the first 17 at the Square. Dallas Maverick’s Dwight Powell was among the winners; he read well, and I thought his poem quite good.

The next 23 poems needed attention, so Mag also accepted submissions for the next several months. I decided to make this a goal—submitting all of the missing ones. Why? I have no idea. Last week, the winners were posted with the first set. Several are mine. In fact, 11 are mine. Something about the distribution and/or the font makes that less obvious than it would seem.

You can read all 40 here.

A friend once shared this story with me: “A Peanuts cartoon shows Charlie Brown chatting with his little sister Sally. ‘We’ve been reading poems in school, but I never understand any of them,’ sis complains. ‘How am I supposed to know which poems to like?’ ‘Somebody tells you, ‘big brother replies.”

Troubling on so many levels. But if you like one, let me know. Someone did just that last week. I was stunned. I didn’t know this person but hers was an opinion I valued.

Oh—and don’t say there’s no money in poetry. Mag was awarded $50,000 by the American Academy of Poets and will launch a Sidewalk Poetry Project. Amazing. Worth bragging about, I’d say…

When I announced a hiatus last, I took time to add lots of links and various clevernesses. Preparation took a few weeks. This happened in April 2022, readable here.

I recently noted on Facebook that I don’t like editing. That’s called understatement. And a bleak confession. It’s always needed. No one but Mozart can produce a finished, polished piece, and he didn’t write short stories anyway.

Recently, a friend not so gently said, “You can’t do everything!” That doesn’t mean I don’t try. Think of frosting spread too thin. Not yummy. (Toothpaste is the opposite, by the way. That long minty ribbon is a marketing tool. Adults need a pea-sized dollop; kids, a bit the size of a kernel of rice.)

I have stories, poems, and plays that need editing. An Amazon launch is the goal. I won’t mention the unfinished novel. It has its merits, but I’m not sure I’ve got the energy.

Can vs. should is the lesson I’m learning. Could I continue blogging about something every Monday? Probably. I’m noticing grammatical errors in the FB prefaces, so sloppy. I just have the feeling I shouldn’t keep churning out even short posts when other works needs doing

So, while I could, I don’t think I should. Will I get that other work, the dread editing, done instead? Time will tell, and I will tell you.

Until we meet again…here or, maybe, on Substack?? Love to all…

A Christmas concern: It’s getting earlier and earlier—the massive decorations on lawns and in stores. Or sometimes blue or something else made festive. Americans love Christmas, at least the lights and colors. Sometimes together. Near The Galleria last night, I saw trees completely covered in red lights. “Breathtaking” and “beloved” per the website. That’s a tiny example. Seeing the lights throughout the city has long been a favorite holiday activity.

My worry this year is that the light trend may reverse. Pendulums swing. Will we go back to a minimalist style with either smaller displays or some sort of media that is not the same as light?

What to do? Awareness is first. We are by nature attracted to light. Light the world yourself as your goodness shines through. Reflect the light of Christ. Keep Him in Christmas. I used to think that was a reactive phrase. This year, I saw a dozen Christmas cards at Walmart with not a single religious one among them. Years ago, we were told to worry about”Xmas.” When have you even seen that larely?

The image for this kept coming as a squeezed out tube of toothpaste. Let’s not let that happen…

“Given” is a poem I sometimes consider my best. I read it tonight to a group before we watched It’s a Wonderful Life (1947). There was interesting conversation afterward, but one phrase that resonated was “goodness creates goodness. Someone asked if it could be made today. I don’t think so. Not because “In our society today…” but because I don’t think we have anyone who could stay out of the story and let it tell itself. Agendas and messages would win out. And yes, poems were being read—so I asked to read this one, not saying whose it was. Merry Christmas!

Given

Given, that this is not the season when He was born,

But on a mild April night, full of new lambs, shepherds tending.

Given, that the stores (and we, shopping, encourage them)

Start too early, the days before Halloween now.

Given, that too much attention is paid to these tinseled toils:

Trees, bows, old elves, new elves, words in glitter.

Given, that red and green are not the best of colors

Arranged on silly sweaters, flattering few.

 

Given, that shallow promises to do and be good should best be

Conquered with deeper resolve some summer, when we have time.

Given, that worries are misplaced on things, which never

Last but break or shrink or fill our stomachs but for the hour.

Given, that those selfsame gifts could find better uses

Feeding the poor, clothing the naked, saving the world.

 

Ah, no, not that last:

For there is only One mighty enough to save.

For all the disappointments, the burdens

Given and received, for all the sadness, for the emptiness

For all the tears over those gone on

For hardships, ours and others

For all the indulgence and self-righteous singing

For all the narrow,

There is still the great

Given.

 

This the time when we remember the birth of a child

Given

To a virgin,

His Father ours, too, but once, not twice.

Given

So that we might come again to that Father,

Given our faults.

For us, to us, was He

Given.

The Light came suddenly, an insignificant dot swelling into a blaze that filled the sky. Ze’ev and the other wolves watched from the hill above the camp. He could not pull his eyes away from the brightness surrounding the shepherds, but at last he glanced at his mate, Adi. She too was transfixed, the gold of her eyes catching the glow.

There had been bright moons before, so clear the fields glistened, and the occasional bonfire when the shepherds needed warmth or light. But nothing compared to what unfolded in the spring night. Adi turned toward Ze’ev, questions in her gaze.

The wolves were downwind from the dogs, close enough to watch the evening ritual. The shepherds usually gathered soon after dusk. The flock lay nearby. Lambs bleated for their mothers. Night birds sang. A young boy often played a simple flute while the older ones sang or clapped.

And the smell of the meal. Tonight it was lamb stew simmered with onions and lentils. The dogs gnawed the bones of the poor creature—broken-legged, unfit for sacrifice. Ze’ev did not begrudge them. Who did not savor the sweet flesh of a lamb?

But tonight was different. The meal ended quietly. There was no music. The Light had come.

Gevurah, leader of the pack, rose slowly, his gaze fixed on the sky. He tilted his head and gave a soft gathering howl. The shepherds were distracted. It was time to take a lamb or two.

One by one the wolves stood, reluctant to leave the hill. Perhaps someone unseen watched the sheep. Perhaps the dogs were watching the brightness. Perhaps—just once—the hunt would be easy. Gevurah howled again, a little louder. Hunger pressed, though spring made it bearable.

Ze’ev rose but did not move. Something else filled the air, thicker than scent. Each breath felt full, alive. He looked again at Adi. She met his gaze and stepped closer. Together they watched the camp.

Gevurah yipped. It was time. Ze’ev lifted his head slightly, signaling that he and his mate would remain behind. In spring they were not needed. The pack slipped away to flank the herd. The sheep were unusually quiet, their faces lifted toward the Light.

When the others vanished, Ze’ev and Adi sank onto their haunches. The Light grew brighter, fuller, stretching across the sky, and it seemed to sing. The tones were beyond human making but clear to the wolves’ ears. The earth itself echoed with a joy they had never known. Then the heavens closed, leaving a new star.

The shepherds stirred, talking excitedly, pointing toward the village beyond three limestone hills. Packs were gathered. Wood was added to the fire. They were leaving—something Ze’ev had never seen.

The sheep began to bleat again, softly. Their backs would soon face the approaching pack.

Adi stood and took a cautious step toward the camp. Ze’ev followed. Moving quickly and silently along the rocky ridge, they slipped into the empty camp. The dogs were gone with the shepherds; the sheep forgotten.

Bowls of stew sat cooling. The wolves lapped the rich broth, one bowl and then another. The night was strangely quiet, the air washed clean.

Then the Light returned, filling the camp and the field. Ze’ev looked to the right. Gevurah and the pack lay alert but motionless, as if held in place.

The wolves lifted their heads and saw a being—not shepherd, not child, yet kin to both—formed of brightness beyond imagining. Ze’ev felt no fear, and that puzzled him. Humans were to be feared. Wolves took only what they needed; without them, shepherds would have no work. There was no common ground.

Behind the being were others, filling the hills and the sky. Music flowed—not like shepherd songs, but sound shaped within breath and time.

The being spoke without words, thoughts opening like images in their minds.

“Ze’ev and Adi, welcome. The shepherds go now to Bethlehem to see a newborn child, sent from God. They have left their flock. Gevurah and the others will not approach. My companions guard the sheep and ease your hunger. The shepherds will forgive the meal you have taken.

“We come from realms of glory. Tonight we rejoice at the birth of a King, who comes as a child. You have no need of him as humans do—but would you like to see?”

Before they could answer, the wolves stood in a limestone cave. A baby lay in a stone manger, wrapped in cloth. The wolves recognized the place: the shepherds’ shelter for special lambs, wrapped at birth and kept apart.

Whispers and tears filled the cave.

“Yes,” the being conveyed, “you know this place. Lambs born here go out for sacrifice—spotless, without blemish. This child is also pure, though his beauty is harder to see.”

The dogs glanced at the wolves with nothing more than interest, as if enmity itself had paused. Ze’ev saw tears on the face of the oldest shepherd. Then the air folded inward, and the wolves were again on their hill.

“We leave you now,” came the final thought. “Much sorrow will follow in the years ahead. But there will be joy. Your distant offspring will see this Son again, robed in red, restoring all things. Wolves and lambs will rest together. Peace will reign.”

The Light faded. Song softened into silence. The pack stood once more in its places. Below, the flock stirred and the shepherds’ voices returned to the night.

Ze’ev pressed close to Adi. Together they held the memory of the night, clear as starlight.