Viracocha, St. Nicholas, Buller Clos

This German Buller Clos seems to fall somewhere
between ancient and modern,
along the middle of the Santa Claus timeline
In addition to the familiar lineage of St. Nick -- from the original 4th Century St. Nicholas of Myra to our contemporary incarnation -- I often wonder if his spiritual roots might be tied laterally to those of the much more ancient and enigmatic Viracocha: "Through all the ancient legends of the peoples of the Andes stalked a tall, bearded, pale - skinned figure wrapped in a cloak of secrecy . . . Viracocha, Foam of the Sea, a master of science and magic who wielded terrible weapons and who came in a time of chaos to set the world to rights" (see Fingerprints of the Gods, by Graham Hancock, p 46).

All of Hancock's sources suggest a similar appearance for the widely traveled Viracocha -- always the beard, the staff, and the long cloak; always venerable, wise, kind and mysterious. Always sounding a lot like -- and this is my conclusion, not Hancock's -- Santa Claus! I'm not kidding!

Yes, Virginia, there is a Viracocha!

One and the same?

The connection rings true to me. Hancock may not agree with me, though I mean his work no disrespect; quite the contrary! And quite in keeping with my proposition, poet Richard Eberhart writes of a Mexican Santa who, consistent with my connection, seems a perfect blend of Jolly Old St. Nick and the prescient Viracocha. Surely, without ever saying the name, Eberhart's poem captures the soul of Viracocha. Mystical, apocryphal, legendary, walking through the ages, the Once and Future Santa Claus brings not just toys but light and reason:

Santa Claus In Oaxaca
Nothing seemed so incongruous
In this Christian country of Indians
In bright clothes, Indians part Spanish
And tourists neither Indian nor Spanish,
In the warm dusk in a place of bells
When the cathedral rips again he harsh sound
Of every quarter hour, and then the full hour,
Next to the Marques del Valle Hotel,
And in the square the noisy band goes off
Like a jubilant series of firecrackers,
The firecrackers shot off by Mexican young and old,
Where every breath taken is compassionate,

Nothing seemed so incongruous
As to see Santa Claus in the hot lands
In red cotton garments, trimmed in white,
His bearded face impersonal but appealing,
Walk awkwardly through the square of Oaxaca
Followed by popping strings of boys and girls,
Mothers with babes mangered in red rebozos.
Where are you going, Santa Claus, walking?
Are you going to the ruins of ancient Mitla?
A gentle Zapotec explains the tombs of Mitla.
This Zapotec survives, but gone is the last fierce Aztec.
Are you hastening to see where the future would go?

Richard Eberhart
poem can be found in A Christmas Treasury, selected by Stephanie Nettell

Gift of Love ~ Counted Cross Stitch
Thanks to my sister Peggy Carriker Rosenbluth
for this Christmas Cottage & the Bullor Clos, above
-- beautiful handmade presents from years ago!

Academic Humor for St. Nicholas Day

Presents from Gerry's Auntie Jan (1997):
Red Wooden Shoes, Inscribed "Ben" & "Sam"
and an Amazingly Detailed Bread Dough St. Nick
AN EDUCATOR'S PERSPECTIVE ON THE QUESTION OF SANTA CLAUS

[I came across this academic rendering back in the 90s when I worked at the Community College of Philadelphia]

Dear Editors,

I am old and weary, beyond my years. Some of my friends in the English Department say there is no humor, no heart, no faith, no optimism in the department. My colleagues say, "If you see it in the DEPARTMENT NEWSLETTER, it must be so." Please tell me the truth.

~Virginia

Virginia,

Your friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of skeptical times. They do not believe except they read and hear and feel. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by the meetings, the memos, and the mumbling in the halls. All minds, Virginia, are susceptible to littleness. In this great department of ours, one is a mere insect, an ant, in intellect as compared with the boundless world about us, as measured by our many intelligences capable of grasping the whole.

Yes, Virginia, there are humor, heart, faith, and optimism in this department. They exist as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your job its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be this department if there were no humor, no heart, no faith, no optimism. It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would no childlike faith then, no poetry, no prose, no romance enough to make tolerable this job. We would have no enjoyment, except in meanness, bitterness, and pessimism. The light with which our profession fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe this department has humor, heart, faith, optimism! You might as well not believe in teachers. You might get your colleagues to listen in at all the classroom and office doors on any given day to catch the spirit, but even if you did not see the spirit, what would that prove? Nobody sees humor or heart or faith or optimism, but that is no sign that there are none. The most real things in education are those that no one can see. Did you ever see teachers dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they do not. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart each other's theories and think you see what makes the thesis, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest, not even the united strength of all the strongest that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, prose, and love can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No humor, heart, faith, or optimism in the English Department. Thank our lucky stars; thank all gods and goddesses! They live and live forever. A thousand semesters from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 semesters from now, these will continue to make glad the heart of this and every college and every student, professor, and administrator in the land.

******************************
ET INCARNATUS SUNT

[Back when I was in graduate school, some of my funny friends wrote this invitation for a party that was being held at the Graduate Student Union -- 27 years ago today! Can't remember whether or not I joined them, but I did save their clever end - of - semester poem.]

Angels of Light and Darkness:

It is in the air.
In your pride and overwork
You have decided against attending
the GSU Christmas party,
December 7, 1984.
You are in error!

Descend!
Descend!
Descend!
Descend to the Senior Bar below!

Mix and mingle with humans on earth.
They need you. Condescend for one hour temporal.
Bring joy and gladness, your essence angelic, to
those caught in clay.

Get on down!
Shake a tail feather!
Drink divine wine!

Those below need to see and to speak with you. One hour,
a mere pittance in your eternity.

Do you need a buck?
See me at the door.
I'll buy your ticket.

~The Gate Keeper

The Little St. Nick

Sam, Ready for Holidays Around the World (Sixth Grade)
St. Nicholas Day: time to set out our red wooden shoes and fill them with dreidels (combining holidays!), along with two sweet little Waiting for Santa Sisters from my friend Etta, our elegant bread dough St. Nick, made by Gerry's Auntie Jan (in the mirror you can see that even his back is finely detailed), and a couple of St. Nicholas picture postcards collected over the years from our friends in Holland. When the boys were little, these friends also sent us some realistic looking St. Nick shaped chocolates. I set them out on the table to admire and after a few days, Ben (only 4 at the time) said, "When can we eat those priests?"

Day of Light / Santa Lucia

Wall Tile for Lucia Day
by Erkers Marie Persson
As with so many of the December customs, St. Lucia's Feast Day on the 13th is a celebration of light, vision, and enlightenment. Lucia, Lucy, Lux, Lucis -- all refer to Light. St. Lucia is a bringer of light -- in the form of candles, and breakfast in bed, early in the morning. And, as one who was violently deprived of her own eyesight, she has also become the patron saint of the blind. In Sweden, at least in days of yore, the occasion was observed by adorning the eldest sister with a crown of candles as she carried a tray of yellow saffron buns about the house, serving her family members breakfast in bed. The buns are formed in various shapes, depending on which legend you follow. My favorite, of course, are the Luciakatter ~ St. Lucy's Cats ~ and I like to make mine out of gingerbread rather than the traditional saffron yeast dough.

I first learned about Lucia Day in 1972, when Betsy McCall Paper Dolls were a regular feature in McCall's Magazine. Back in those days, I saved numerous pages and articles from my mother's holiday magazines, and I have heard many friends say that this was their favorite and most memorable Betsy Doll.



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ADDITIONAL LUCIA DAY TREASURES

1.

a Christmas song of "luminous light," perfect for the occasion:

Star of Bethlehem
lyrics by Leslie Bricusse
music by John Williams
from the Home Alone Soundtrack

Star of Bethlehem shining bright,
bathing the world in heav'nly light.
Let the glow of your distant glory
fill us with hope this Christmas night.

Star of innocence, star of goodness.
Gazing down since time began.
You who've lived through endless ages,
view with love the age of man.

Star of beauty hear our plea,
whisper your wisdom tenderly.
Star of Bethlehem set us free,
make us a world we long to see.

Star of Bethlehem, star on high,
miracle of the midnight sky.
Let your luminous light from heaven
enter our hearts and make us fly.

Star of happiness, star of wonder.
You see everything from afar.
Cast your eye upon the future,
make us wiser than we are.

Star of gentleness hear our plea,
whisper your wisdom tenderly.
Star of Bethlehem set us free
make us a world we long to see.

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2.

Thanks to my friend Cate
for these darling little Lucia Day Stickers

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3.
Lines from the most famous poem for this day,
John Donne's "Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day"
written back when the Winter Solstice occurred earlier in the month

It opens . . .

Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
The world's whole sap is sunk . . .

And closes . . .

Since she enjoys her long night's festival,
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is."
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4.
My Little Lucia Miniature ~ She is a British Lucia, bringing Christmas Pudding & Tea! ~

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5.
One of my favorite Carl Larsson paintings
is this romantic depiction of the early morning ritual:

The Feast of St. Lucy on 13th December, 1916

A Fall Reason, A Winter Reason

The Lanterns, Filled With Snow
According to the calendar, it's still autumn; but judging by six inches of snow on the ground, it's definitely winter. As my friend Olynn described it: "One week till first day of winter! Yay! Love first day of winter because as soon as it gets here, days start getting longer. Hate first day of summer cause when you are finally ready for lots of warm sunny weather, days start getting shorter." It seems so backward, doesn't it?

Czech poet and immunologist Miroslav Holub has written a couple of excellent poems for this transitional time of year. First, in his poem "Philosophy of Fall" comes the "yellow foliage" when there are still a few leaves to be seen:

Fingers of the autumn sun
fiddle with yellow foliage
outside. . . .
this year we are
immersed in history
like a web of light.

Followed at last by the "reddish boniness" when it appears that all is lost:

Autumn
And it is all over.

No more sweetpeas,
no more wide-eyed bunnies
dropping from the sky.

Only
a reddish boniness
under the sun of hoarfrost,
a thievish fog,
an insipid solution of love,
hate
and crowing.

But next year
larches will try
to make the land full of larches again
and larks will try
to make the land full of larks.

And thrushes will try
to make all the trees sing,
and goldfinches will try
to make all the grass golden,

and burying beetles
with their creaky love will try
to make all the corpses
rise from the dead,

Amen.

Miroslav Holub (1923 - 98)
Both poems translated by Stuart Friebert and Dana Habova
In Holub’s collection Intensive Care: Selected and New Poems, 1996


Even as Holub writes of the year's demise, he anticipates the coming cycle of renewed life, a new generation of sweetpeas, bunnies, thrushes, and beetles. American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay looks from the opposite perspective, however, writing in "Sonnet XXXV" that even at the height of summer, she can feel the full weight of love's decline:

If in widening silence you should guess
I read the moment with recording eyes,
Taking your love and all your loveliness
Into a listening body hushed of sighs . . .
Though summer's rife and the warm rose in season,
Rebuke me not: I have a winter reason.

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 – 1950)
From “Clearly my ruined garden”
In Fatal Interview, 1931

If you have a winter reason, well, now's the time. But keep in mind the larches and the larks! As Olynn observes, just one short week to go before the days start getting longer! Appropriate for any time of year is this beautiful closing thought from Holub's poem "United Flight 412":

. . . where would we be
if love was not stronger than poetry
and poetry stronger than love?

Hope Springs Eternal

At the Biopond: An Iris Blooming on the Winter Solstice, 1998
English Romantic Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 - 1834) wrote that "Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, / And Hope without an object cannot live," while a hundred years earlier, English poet Alexander Pope (1688-1744) declared that "Hope springs eternal in the human breast."

When we lived in Philadelphia, one of our favorite places to go was the Biopond at the University of Pennsylvania, five hidden acres, right in the middle of a busy campus, surrounded by dorms, medical buildings, and major streets. You might never guess it existed, but walk a few blocks off the beaten path, and there it was -- an urban oasis extraordinaire!

One year, out for a brisk walk on the first day of Christmas Vacation, we stopped by the Biopond, and what to our wondering eyes should appear but a purple iris in full bloom . . . in December . . . in Philadelphia!

I've heard the legend of the Christmas rose, which blossomed from the tears of Madelon the Shepherd Girl, and of little Pepita the Mexican girl whose humble bouquet of weeds, in similar fashion, was transformed on Christmas Eve into a brilliant poinsettia. But that day, we witnessed our own seasonal miracle, something I had never heard of or seen before -- a Solstice Iris -- blooming on the First Day of Winter!

Snowy Winter Solstice

December 21 2010
Porch Lanterns During Evening Snowfall
Due to the overcast sky and the aura of orange light reflected from the five inches of snow that fell in five hours yesterday, we were unable to behold the lunar eclipse here in Indiana. Still, it was worth waiting up until 3am, just to know that somewhere out beyond my sight, the Eclipse, the Full Moon, and the Winter Solstice were coinciding, a rare cosmic occurrence in any millennium.

One of my sweet friends paid me the compliment of saying, "I think you are about the only person I know who would take notice that the Solstice and Full Moon coincided! That is great!" What a gratifying observation, since I am proud to be known for precisely such an awareness of the universe in all of its orderly, harmonious wholeness.

So many beautiful poems ring true on the Winter Solstice, but this has to be one of the best:

The Shortest Day
And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, revelling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us - listen!
All the long echoes, sing the same delight,
This Shortest Day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And now so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome Yule!

by Susan Cooper(b. 1935)
Award - winning British author of fiction and fantasy

Porch Lanterns at Dusk