a walk on christmas eve
Listen...I went for a walk on Christmas Eve...
I wanted to hear the sleighbells.
When I was little I could always hear them, Christmas Eve. Even the week before, I remember little me from the pictures, stuffed into a fuzzy pink coat, carried high in my Daddy's arms, on the way to the car as the snow fell I remember hearing them so clearly in the sky, of course they were there, the sleigh bells, why wouldn't they be?
Santa. Santa and his reindeer going by overhead.
Even later I could still hear them, if I listened, Christmas Eve, I'd take a walk and listen. When I was older I wouldn't say, but I could hear them, quietly, gently there, the sound dropping softly from the sky like snow tipped with silver. Then for years I just assumed, never going out to listen, just assumed they'd be there, they were always there, Christmas Eve.
Last year, for the first time in a long time I went out to listen. Specifically to listen.
And I couldn't hear them.
So tonight I set out. I left my ipod at home, took nothing but myself, my coat, my hat, my team. A few of them. Anubis, striding softly and protectively behind. Melchior, the dragon-dog, walking fierily ahead. And on my right, my Sean, dear Sean, inseparable Sean.
"You did this last year, Felix." Sean said. "Now relax."
Sean calls me Felix. Long story. Actually, it's not. Sean calls me Felix. That's the story. And it always cracks me up.
"It's the children today," I wailed silently, "They don't believe it. They don't believe long enough to understand the magic. They don't love Christmas for the feeling of it. They want the presents, and then they don't believe --"
Anubis behind me raised his flute and played as we walked, long notes like breathing, long notes like slow-dancing cranes in brush-paintings, long notes that drew aside the curtains between layers of the world.
And the streetlamp up ahead went out.
I let my eyes fall halfway shut, let the sparkles on the snow dazzle me, let the glinting of the ice delight me. Crystal. Stars.
Somewhere up there is a full moon, I thought, behind the pale orange clouds.
Will I hear them at the turned-out light, I thought, if I stand beside it? One less electric thing. Will I hear the sleighbells there?
Go there and see, I think, and go.
I stand by the lamp, pull my hat and earband off, and listen. The eerie feel is all around me, the thinning of the layers, and I think I can almost hear...but no.
Maybe I'm listening too hard, I think. Maybe it was enough to just know they were there, and I'd hear them without listening. But I remember listening hard when I was small, my cheeks cold, and hearing them so clearly. You just have to know how to listen, I think as a plane goes by, it's up there, that high. Can I hear it?
The streetlight across the road goes out as well, as I stand by the dark lamp, and listen, the wind in my hair, my ears growing colder.
Maybe up ahead, I thought. I'll walk to the bridge, and we'll see.
"Felix, don't be sad tonight if you still don't hear anything." Sean beside me, comforting. I squeeze his hand in my glove.
Maybe it's me, I thought. Maybe it's my believing that does it. I believed there was a Santa and reindeer up there, when I heard it. What do I believe now, that could call that down?
Woden? And Sleipnir?
Thinking Sleipnir I think of the stories, and how the eight-legged horse was Loki's child, got on him by a passionate stallion he'd been working to distract in the shape of an attractive mare. I think that I need to write a poem about this child, curled in Loki's horsey womb, curled around its eight legs like a pillbug, dreaming, blue eyes shut.
I'm thinking did they leave carrots for Sleipnir like they leave carrots for Santa's reindeer? And I'm thinking, if I was Sleipnir, I would prefer an apple. A nice big apple.
Walking to the bridge I remember how I'd wanted to write what it was like to work at Santa's workshop, and I try to remember if this was something I wanted to do before or after I knew what layer of the world Santa didn't belong to.
The cars beside me on the road are the breath and pulse of the city. I know there can be no magic here that does not include them. They would have been included too, when I was small. I ask Toronto. I ask her and she says she hasn't heard the bells in quite some time herself.
Up ahead, on the bridge, another streetlight goes out. Melchior flames quietly ahead of me, treading silent as a lion.
I stop by the bridge, look out at the train tracks, curving off and away to the east, and a little to the right before disappearing beyond the trees. I listen. I listen. I listen. I think I almost hear...but no.
I move on when I think someone passing might worry I'm thinking of jumping.
There's a lot going on tonight, in the other layers, spilling into ours. Twice I've heard footsteps behind me when there was no one there. More than twice I've seen the edges of things moving, sometimes becoming other things when I looked. A tumbled plastic bag. A roll of fabric on the road. A startlingly white glove on a stick, stuck upright in the ground. It's an active night. I try to remember if Christmas Eve, like All Hallows Eve, was ever known for spirits walking the Earth. Only now, typing this, do I remember the Dickens, the famed conversion of Ebenezer Scrooge.
Anubis behind me, his flute throbbing. The layers are thinner than ever. I pass the wooden gate to the big fancy house on the way, where I'd seen that rabbit just standing two summers ago, just standing up on his back paws, tall, and not afraid. Now I see a rabbit standing there in one layer of the night, four feet tall, his wild fur brown, his big ears back, his eyes huge and dark and shining, his body snug in a rich dark red velvet waistcoat. Come in, come in and welcome, he says, nodding and waving a paw, come in and welcome. It's Christmas Eve. Beyond him, there are electric candles in the big house's window.
I cross the street at the next light and turn around, stopping again as I come to the bridge going back. The field there where I've seen groundhogs, bunnies, the occasional hunting housecat. Empty but for snow. And I see one of the things I'd thought might have been the sleighbells as I'd listened on the other side of the bridge, a power generator beside a building.
I listen again, looking out at the train tracks on this side, looking west. These also curve to the right before disappearing beyond the trees, but I can't see the other side now to complete the S. I don't like this side as much for some reason, for the tracks, for the listening.
I'm changing it as I hear it, I thought. I think I hear it, but then I think what am I really hearing? Distant traffic? It becomes that. The whirr of a power generator? It becomes that. The buzz of a lamppost?
Another light goes out.
I walk on. By now Fenrir has joined me. Ever since he'd been free he'd been the rejoicing winter wind, and I'm happy to see him. He nudges me away from a side street where I can see enticing lights to look at. Full moon, I am reminded. People can be strange. You don't want trouble.
I stop and stand by the small apartment building there, beside the side street, and so many windows have lights.
And I almost hear it. I almost hear the sleighbells. I hear it, but when I really listen, I don't.
It's closer to homes with children in them, maybe. Maybe on the night, the closer to homes with children in them, the more you can hear the bells.
And then it occurs to me. When Santa was most of the magic there was, I heard Santa. But now, with what I've seen, with what I've done, with what I know, my life is rich with magic every day. Maybe I don't hear the sleighbells Christmas Eve, but they're not for me anymore.
You do hear things others don't, after all, I tell myself. You do have things in the world that are special, and magical, and your own.
You have a winter wind that is a wolf. You have Anubis and the mountaintop and the dancing lights. You have Sean.
Remembering Yggdrasil I catch a glimpse of Duneyr, stepping up a mud-caked branch, his antlers swept back, his graceful neck arching up. Heading home the other layers crowd in, and though the city is not quiet I can feel where the stillness lives. The snow sparkles beside me. I'm not trying to hear the sleighbells anymore, but I'm letting the world show me what it will. I think of the mountaintop, those steps back from the world where people live in skins, their lights hidden, those steps back where I've crouched as Anubis played to their dancing, the lights shining true, pure, sweet. I head for home, and home, and straight on home.
And coming up to the door, without trying, I hear them. They're there, unmistakable. Off in the sky, if you don't try to hear them, if you just know they're there. The world seems to make them from the other sounds, and they're there, under the din, they're there, that joyous ching-ching-ching-ching-ching, a jolly laugh seeming to wait, but never to come, behind. I hear them steps away from the door, and I know the secret at last. I didn't need to go out searching for them.
You hear them when you're almost home.
You hear them when you're almost home.
You hear them when you're almost home.
12/24/07
I wanted to hear the sleighbells.
When I was little I could always hear them, Christmas Eve. Even the week before, I remember little me from the pictures, stuffed into a fuzzy pink coat, carried high in my Daddy's arms, on the way to the car as the snow fell I remember hearing them so clearly in the sky, of course they were there, the sleigh bells, why wouldn't they be?
Santa. Santa and his reindeer going by overhead.
Even later I could still hear them, if I listened, Christmas Eve, I'd take a walk and listen. When I was older I wouldn't say, but I could hear them, quietly, gently there, the sound dropping softly from the sky like snow tipped with silver. Then for years I just assumed, never going out to listen, just assumed they'd be there, they were always there, Christmas Eve.
Last year, for the first time in a long time I went out to listen. Specifically to listen.
And I couldn't hear them.
So tonight I set out. I left my ipod at home, took nothing but myself, my coat, my hat, my team. A few of them. Anubis, striding softly and protectively behind. Melchior, the dragon-dog, walking fierily ahead. And on my right, my Sean, dear Sean, inseparable Sean.
"You did this last year, Felix." Sean said. "Now relax."
Sean calls me Felix. Long story. Actually, it's not. Sean calls me Felix. That's the story. And it always cracks me up.
"It's the children today," I wailed silently, "They don't believe it. They don't believe long enough to understand the magic. They don't love Christmas for the feeling of it. They want the presents, and then they don't believe --"
Anubis behind me raised his flute and played as we walked, long notes like breathing, long notes like slow-dancing cranes in brush-paintings, long notes that drew aside the curtains between layers of the world.
And the streetlamp up ahead went out.
I let my eyes fall halfway shut, let the sparkles on the snow dazzle me, let the glinting of the ice delight me. Crystal. Stars.
Somewhere up there is a full moon, I thought, behind the pale orange clouds.
Will I hear them at the turned-out light, I thought, if I stand beside it? One less electric thing. Will I hear the sleighbells there?
Go there and see, I think, and go.
I stand by the lamp, pull my hat and earband off, and listen. The eerie feel is all around me, the thinning of the layers, and I think I can almost hear...but no.
Maybe I'm listening too hard, I think. Maybe it was enough to just know they were there, and I'd hear them without listening. But I remember listening hard when I was small, my cheeks cold, and hearing them so clearly. You just have to know how to listen, I think as a plane goes by, it's up there, that high. Can I hear it?
The streetlight across the road goes out as well, as I stand by the dark lamp, and listen, the wind in my hair, my ears growing colder.
Maybe up ahead, I thought. I'll walk to the bridge, and we'll see.
"Felix, don't be sad tonight if you still don't hear anything." Sean beside me, comforting. I squeeze his hand in my glove.
Maybe it's me, I thought. Maybe it's my believing that does it. I believed there was a Santa and reindeer up there, when I heard it. What do I believe now, that could call that down?
Woden? And Sleipnir?
Thinking Sleipnir I think of the stories, and how the eight-legged horse was Loki's child, got on him by a passionate stallion he'd been working to distract in the shape of an attractive mare. I think that I need to write a poem about this child, curled in Loki's horsey womb, curled around its eight legs like a pillbug, dreaming, blue eyes shut.
I'm thinking did they leave carrots for Sleipnir like they leave carrots for Santa's reindeer? And I'm thinking, if I was Sleipnir, I would prefer an apple. A nice big apple.
Walking to the bridge I remember how I'd wanted to write what it was like to work at Santa's workshop, and I try to remember if this was something I wanted to do before or after I knew what layer of the world Santa didn't belong to.
The cars beside me on the road are the breath and pulse of the city. I know there can be no magic here that does not include them. They would have been included too, when I was small. I ask Toronto. I ask her and she says she hasn't heard the bells in quite some time herself.
Up ahead, on the bridge, another streetlight goes out. Melchior flames quietly ahead of me, treading silent as a lion.
I stop by the bridge, look out at the train tracks, curving off and away to the east, and a little to the right before disappearing beyond the trees. I listen. I listen. I listen. I think I almost hear...but no.
I move on when I think someone passing might worry I'm thinking of jumping.
There's a lot going on tonight, in the other layers, spilling into ours. Twice I've heard footsteps behind me when there was no one there. More than twice I've seen the edges of things moving, sometimes becoming other things when I looked. A tumbled plastic bag. A roll of fabric on the road. A startlingly white glove on a stick, stuck upright in the ground. It's an active night. I try to remember if Christmas Eve, like All Hallows Eve, was ever known for spirits walking the Earth. Only now, typing this, do I remember the Dickens, the famed conversion of Ebenezer Scrooge.
Anubis behind me, his flute throbbing. The layers are thinner than ever. I pass the wooden gate to the big fancy house on the way, where I'd seen that rabbit just standing two summers ago, just standing up on his back paws, tall, and not afraid. Now I see a rabbit standing there in one layer of the night, four feet tall, his wild fur brown, his big ears back, his eyes huge and dark and shining, his body snug in a rich dark red velvet waistcoat. Come in, come in and welcome, he says, nodding and waving a paw, come in and welcome. It's Christmas Eve. Beyond him, there are electric candles in the big house's window.
I cross the street at the next light and turn around, stopping again as I come to the bridge going back. The field there where I've seen groundhogs, bunnies, the occasional hunting housecat. Empty but for snow. And I see one of the things I'd thought might have been the sleighbells as I'd listened on the other side of the bridge, a power generator beside a building.
I listen again, looking out at the train tracks on this side, looking west. These also curve to the right before disappearing beyond the trees, but I can't see the other side now to complete the S. I don't like this side as much for some reason, for the tracks, for the listening.
I'm changing it as I hear it, I thought. I think I hear it, but then I think what am I really hearing? Distant traffic? It becomes that. The whirr of a power generator? It becomes that. The buzz of a lamppost?
Another light goes out.
I walk on. By now Fenrir has joined me. Ever since he'd been free he'd been the rejoicing winter wind, and I'm happy to see him. He nudges me away from a side street where I can see enticing lights to look at. Full moon, I am reminded. People can be strange. You don't want trouble.
I stop and stand by the small apartment building there, beside the side street, and so many windows have lights.
And I almost hear it. I almost hear the sleighbells. I hear it, but when I really listen, I don't.
It's closer to homes with children in them, maybe. Maybe on the night, the closer to homes with children in them, the more you can hear the bells.
And then it occurs to me. When Santa was most of the magic there was, I heard Santa. But now, with what I've seen, with what I've done, with what I know, my life is rich with magic every day. Maybe I don't hear the sleighbells Christmas Eve, but they're not for me anymore.
You do hear things others don't, after all, I tell myself. You do have things in the world that are special, and magical, and your own.
You have a winter wind that is a wolf. You have Anubis and the mountaintop and the dancing lights. You have Sean.
Remembering Yggdrasil I catch a glimpse of Duneyr, stepping up a mud-caked branch, his antlers swept back, his graceful neck arching up. Heading home the other layers crowd in, and though the city is not quiet I can feel where the stillness lives. The snow sparkles beside me. I'm not trying to hear the sleighbells anymore, but I'm letting the world show me what it will. I think of the mountaintop, those steps back from the world where people live in skins, their lights hidden, those steps back where I've crouched as Anubis played to their dancing, the lights shining true, pure, sweet. I head for home, and home, and straight on home.
And coming up to the door, without trying, I hear them. They're there, unmistakable. Off in the sky, if you don't try to hear them, if you just know they're there. The world seems to make them from the other sounds, and they're there, under the din, they're there, that joyous ching-ching-ching-ching-ching, a jolly laugh seeming to wait, but never to come, behind. I hear them steps away from the door, and I know the secret at last. I didn't need to go out searching for them.
You hear them when you're almost home.
You hear them when you're almost home.
You hear them when you're almost home.
12/24/07