Okay, let me climb up on my soapbox... Welcome, one and all, to the holiday season. Not the Christmas season, not the Hannukah season, not even Kwanzaa... but the holiday season, since so many celebrations closely coincide at the winter solstice. And in case you haven't guessed - no, I'm NOT offended when it's called a holiday tree, even though I consider myself to be Christian. Yes, I call it a Christmas tree when I see a picture of one. But I find it hard to believe the fundamentalists are getting their drawers in a bunch over what to call an object that is essentially a pagan relic that got melded into our Christmas celebration. I know it must come as a shock to my Baptist brethren, but there was no decorated Douglas fir at the the manger - no, not even so much as a cedar shrub. No holly, no mistletoe, no poinsettias. So why insist on making it a Christian symbol? It's not, folks - never was, and never will be, no matter how hard we try. It belonged to the Egyptians, the Romans, even the druids centuries before the birth of Christ. Let's just accept that fact; accept that this nation of ours, founded on religious freedoms, is the home to many, many faiths; and move on to the celebration part of this season. Happy Holidays!
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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