Sunday, December 23, 2018

Santa Claus is Real


I've told this story before, but it deserves retelling

Santa Claus is real.  I know, because I was Santa Claus once -- and no, I don't mean just putting on the costume and ringing a bell for the Salvation Army or handing out presents at a kids' party, o sitting in a chair in a store listening to kids tell their Christmas wishes.  I mean the real thing.  No, not the 4th-century bishop of Myra, who was famously generous to children, or the north European "Old Man Christmas", whose attributes and image owe so much to Odin, nor Clement Moore's "Jolly Old Elf", nor the Thomas Nast illustrations that refined his image.  No, the concept that comes closest is Francis Church's explanation in his famous editorial, "Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus" -- written sincerely, although Church himself was a cynic and an Atheist.  Church had been a correspondent who covered the Civil War;  as such, he must have seen some of the strange things that happen in war for which there is no easy "mechanical" explanation.  He'd seen, and he knew;  spirits -- energy beings -- are real.

Santa Claus is a spirit -- the spirit of Christmas (and Hannukah, and Solstice, and Bodhi Day, and Ganesha's Birthday, and all the rest).  He/She/It/They is the accreted spirit of kindness, generosity, joy, love, fellow-feeling, and delight in the happiness of children, which has collected over the centuries and millennia, attached to this time of the solar year.  The mystic-scholarly Buddhist monks of Tibet might call it a "tulpa" -- a thought-form or energy-being which has absorbed enough psychic energy from humans to become visible, or more.  The ancient Greek and Roman mystics called the process of creating a tulpa "theogenesis", or "god-making" -- and they didn't do it often.  My old psychic-study group back in Chicago did it once;  we created Randy the Alley-God, the lesser god of recycling, which is a story in itself.  And Randy worked.  To the best of my knowledge, he's still there. 

And so, of course, is Santa Claus. 

The way Santa Claus works is by "benign possession".  Think: if an evil spirit can possess a person, then so can a good one.  All you have to do is be willing, ready and agreeable to welcome the spirit in.  Once housed, though you might not feel it right away, the spirit will guide you along its natural path.  And that's what happened to me.

This was back in the early '90s, when I was still living in California, going to celebrations with the local Pagan crowd -- which included the family of Paul Zimmer.  I had a spare drum -- a chased metal dunbek -- which I'd planned to give to his son Ian, but hadn't gotten around to it yet.  On the day before Christmas I'd been to a local Solstice party, for which I wore a pant-suit in the seasonal colors -- red and forest-green, with touches of white.  When I got home and finished dinner I was ready to sit back and watch TV, fueled on eggnog, when it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't given away the last of my cards and presents: there was still that drum for Ian.  Well, it was after dark but not too late for driving, so I grabbed up the drum, hurried out to the car, and started driving up to the Berkeley hills and Greyhaven, the Zinmers' house.

That's when the snow started falling.  It was a light fall: few flakes, big and soft, drifting down lazily, not enough to make driving dangerous -- just enough to make it a bit hard to see.  I made half a dozen wrong turns on the way, and finally spent another quarter-hour finding a parking-space, and then another walking all the way back to Greyhaven.  When I got there and knocked on the door, it was exactly midnight. 

The door opened, and there stood Ian.  I handed him the drum, saying, "Merry Christmas".

Ian gawked for a moment and then asked: "Are you Santa Claus?" 

"Huh?" I replied.   

"Think," he said.  "Who  else shows up at midnight on Christmas Eve, wearing the Christmas colors, giving gifts?"

I thought that over, then wondered how the weather had conspired to put me on his doorstep at precisely midnight, and how I'd been suddenly inspired to go out driving after dark to deliver a present, and I had to agree.  "Yes," I said, handing him the drum, "I guess I am."

So of course he invited me in, and I sat around the lovely decorated tree with the family, eating the ritual foods -- cookies and milk -- and we sang carols, and Paul Zimmer gave me a sprig off the tree, which I tucked into my headband, and it was well after 1AM when the party broke up.  When I came out, the snow had stopped falling;  there was just a fluffy dusting on the streets and houses and lawns.  Maybe it was the sprig of the Christmas tree, but I had no trouble driving home or finding a parking-space.  I poured myself a last cup of eggnog, tuned the radio to a music station, and went to sleep to the sound of Christmas carols.  I never slept better in my life.

The feeling of Christmas lasted beyond New Year's, which is why nowadays I include Twelfth Night on my holiday cards.  I noticed that when the feeling was gone, it was noticeably gone -- and the weird coincidences stopped happening.  Like any sensible Pagan, I started making making plans and lookiing forward to Imbolc, the late-winter festival, which is a fun celebration too, but has a very different feeling from Yule-Solstice-Christmas.

So yes, Virginia -- and everybody else -- there really is a Santa Claus.  And you can be him, if you try.

--Leslie <;)))>< 

 

 

3 comments:

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Leslie Fish said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
KateGladstone said...

Re:
“if an evil spirit can possess a person, then so can a good one.” — Hmmm ... right now (and for about the next two years), I suddenly need to be possessed by “the spirit of NOT getting stuck when I write nonfiction,” because I’ve just landed a very nice contract with a nonfiction publisher (to write books in a field VERY squarely within my personal capabilities and professional-as-well-as-personal interests), and ... well, I’ve never before experienced “writer’s block” for NON-fiction: never in my life, yet here it is, massively. It’s as if “the engine fails to turn over” — and yes, I’ve been checked out medically and psycho therapeutically and otherwise, and there is nothing that could account for this. It is simply that “the engine refuses to go.” So, is there some way that I could “get benevolently possessed“ by some kind of “Spirit of Nonfiction Writing,“ If there is such a thing?