The Ghosts of Christmas Past

I'm a bit out-of-sorts this Christmas Eve. Can't put my finger on it exactly--but it has something to do with the ghosts of Christmases past. Two college age kids are wandering the house at all hours, tucking me in at night and generally sleeping all day, and causing me to feel like the child in this Christmas of 2008.

In Christmases past, I was the one who stayed up past midnight (for obvious reasons), tiptoeing around the house and trying not to awaken "the children . . . all nestled and snug in their beds." Now I'd have to stay up until at least 3 a.m. to catch them snoozing--an absolutely impossible task at my age. Much more likely that I'll simply rise at dawn--and sit by the tree reminiscing about ghosts of Christmases past--the pitter-patter of little feet that once went to bed at 9 p.m. and woke me up bright and early and begged to head down the hall to see what Santa Claus might have deposited in the night.

I remember other ghosts from the Christmases of my own childhood, spent about six degrees off the equator in the Philippines. Obviously, no one had a chimney--so we made do. We had a fake chimney made out of plywood painted to look like bricks. Christmas Eve was generally marked by a constant progression of carolers, generally children, who sang for the gift of a few coins, rather like trick-or-treaters at Halloween in the US troll for candy. We'd stand on the porch and listen to group after group--"Maligayang pasko," they sang. It literally translates to something like "Merry Christmas" and is sung to the tune "Happy Birthday." "Maligayang pasko. Maligayang pasko. Maligayang, maligayang, maligayang pasko." It's so much part of me that I can't sing "Happy birthday" without thinking of Christmases replete with banana trees and rice paddies and beautiful Christmas stars hanging from nipa huts. I still hear childrens' voices every Christmas Eve, despite the years that separate me from them. Their ghosts sing on and on and on.

No--there won't be children singing at my gate this Christmas Eve or running down my hall on Christmas Day, at least not in the flesh. But they will be with me in spirit. They will always be with me in spirit.

I'm cheered by the thought that the ghosts of Christmas present have not yet come, though they lurk just around the corner. I should enjoy them while they are here in the flesh and not yet ghosts at all. One day in the not too distant future I will yearn for them--two college kids who might finally "nestle all snug in their beds" at 3 a.m. on Christmas Eve. Someday they'll be married or well into their own careers. They'll stop by for a day or two at most--not for the two or three weeks that they spend with us now.

Suddenly I'm not out-of-sorts at all. The ghosts have gone away. Tonight these two will stop by my bed and kiss me and tuck me in before heading out for the evening. The kiss and the tuck will be very real indeed--as will their voices and, if I'm lucky, I'll hear them exclaim 'ere they drive out of sight,

"Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad, and to all a good night."

Mumbai Musings

I know--you're wondering where I've been--perhaps both literally and figuratively. Literally--I've been hanging around places like Atlanta, Rome, Memphis, Prague, Dallas, Philadelphia, New Orleans, Oklahoma City, and other places large and small. I put a couple of kids in college in August, had an auto accident or two, and tried to stick more closely to home.

Figuratively, I've been tending to the pressing matters of the past seven months--keeping all the balls as high up in the air as I can get them. I've not been here (on this blog) much at all. The truth of the matter is that I really haven't had much reason to be in this place. Too much was going on around me--and too little was going on inside me.

Then I went to India.

Here is a picture of Guyeth and me--sitting in a swing in Mumbai. It's a beautiful little swing--sort of a traditional Indian swing with a beautiful Indian painting behind it. It sits just off the swimming pool in a gorgeous 5-star hotel near downtown Mumbai. We didn't stay there--we just visited.

It's one of those historic British hotels that dot the former British empire. I generally avoid these hotels. They are a bit too "high profile." You have to go through security just to get to the check-in desk in the lobby. And I follow the general rule of never staying in a hotel where I have to send my suitcases through an X-ray machine before I check in.

This one is called the Taj Hotel. I guess you've heard of it. This picture was taken just off the lobby of the hotel about ten days before gunmen seized the place and several other prominent sites in the city and killed some 170 people. We were there on a gorgeous early afternoon. We stood in front of the Gate of India and snapped some photos and then we headed into the hotel just to see the place. It is grand and beautiful--with an historic old section and a gleaming new tower. We strolled about the place--and then moved on.

I suppose the experience has caused me to reflect upon where I've been lately. It matters where we "are"--both literally and figuratively. It matters that I was literally at the Taj Hotel in Mumbai, India in mid-November and not on November 26. It matters that other people were there on November 26 and that their lives were destroyed or devastated as a result.

And it matters whether or not I am figuratively at the Taj now--reflecting on it. Trying to figure out what it means. Trying to understand what it was that brought terrorists and tourists and businessfolks all to that place at that time. Not to be there . . . is to truly be absent.

So wherever I've been . . . I'm back.