From “The Human Condition: A User’s Manual,” by Arnold Kunst
24 December
Christmas is, outwardly at least, a season of happiness and
warmth, of joy and abundance, of Jingle Bells and Silent Nights. But not very
far below the surface lurks a distinct, abiding sense of malaise. Always we’re
consumed by … a something. We may not be able to identify it effectively, but
it’s there for sure, as evidenced by the ever-tapping toe, the incessant
drumming fingers. It’s as if receiving all the gifts in the world, destined as
they are to sink below the surface of some bottomless abyss, would never even
register. There is something in all of us of the alcoholic for whom a whisper
of a wine cork will always be too much, for whom 20 cases of Jack Daniels will
never be enough.
Nature isn’t like that.
Seen small, take your dog for a walk and he’ll happily show
you: there are too many fire hydrants that need meticulous sniffing, too many
bushes that need minute irrigating.
Seen large, stars are content to just be there, as the poet
says, singing their music of the spheres.
In this season you and I are sure to be tempted to stomp our
feet at the microwave and blurt out, “Hurry up – I haven’t got all minute!” The
trouble is, when we do that we will, of necessity, forget that tranquility and
delight are as much our heritage as it is of your dog, or my stars.
Peace, my friend!
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