So the answer to yesterday’s bonus question is 12. It took the Wiseguys twelve days to get to Bethlehem. I suspect that they were not traveling the whole time because they were just coming from Jerusalem and it is not that far. They were probably downloading updated maps from Garmin but the server was clogged by everyone who had gotten a GPS for Brumalia, so they had a hard time working out the updates. In any event, the 12 days of the liturgical season of Christmas come to an end on the Feast of the Epiphany which commemorates the Wiseguys’ arrival.
What are we supposed to do for 12 days? If you have, unlike me, been attentive to the Advent thing, waiting is a bit passe (there should be a little thing over the “e” but I don’t have one on my keyboard. [Friggin’ American keyboard.]) I suppose you party down for 12 days, as they would have done in ancient times. Sometimes they added in days at the end of the year to straighten the calendar out and used those days just to party. I’d be for that, but I’m not much of a party animal.
What I am is a dad, and I remember that when Tallulah was born — about this time of year — we were exhausted, and thrilled, and scared, and in awe, and a whole bunch of things. It was a time of getting to know this new person. They come out as whole people, with personalities and shit. We considered what had just happened and contemplated what in the world we had just done. I’m thinking that this Christmas season, as parts of my life come to a close and other parts begin, it is a good time to be reflective on, well, stuff.
Ok, so Christmas miracle, woot! Christ child, hooray! Who doesn’t love a fat baby, except maybe people who have sensitive noses and are challenged by that new baby smell. Even those folks would laugh to see a fat baby do something funny on America’s Funniest Home Videos, right? Yes, of course. So the baby is cute but here is the thing I learned about babies, especially the newer ones: they can’t do anything for themselves. Nothing. Not even sit. They pretty much eat, sleep, and crap. You could take them to Tibet and they would have no clue.
There is the vulnerability thing, but there is also the helpless, powerless thing. I can relate to the powerlessness most. I still fancy that I can whoop ass if necessary, but let’s face it, there are some things I am powerless to change. Neo-Nazis, people who use animated GIFs on their websites, and the desktop image on my Windows 7 Starter Edition netbook are among these, yet I am especially thinking about the things I know I would like to be different. I can get anxious and jealous. I don’t always give my family the attention they deserve. I sometimes hold a grudge that has passed its expiration date. As much as I would like to change some of these things, I am powerless to do so.
If this makes me sound weak, it’s because I am (to paraphrase Jed Bartlett) but I’m not screwed. There is, I believe, a source of power. That power changes things, situations, and people. It has, can, and will change me. That power (what Plato called “logos” and is somewhat equivalent to “logic” but is often translated “word”) is not something I can just conjure up but it is something that is available to me. To us. All of us, as far as I am concerned. It came to dwell with us and we give it names, but those names don’t define it or limit its ability to restore my vida loca to some semblance of sanity. And without it I am, I believe, screwed.