OPTIMISM IN THE CHRISTMAS PIG - A SAMHAIN TREAT, MMXX

 Up until now, I had given short shrift to The Christmas Pig by J.K. Rowling, until today when I fell down a rabbit hole that led me to a decadent royal palace (for a change) in the Land of the Lost, where the crimson King Power rules with an iron fist. And there, I immediately fell for one of his courtiers:

But first let's set the scene.

... the golden palace doors.

... over the threshold of the palace. They now stood on a thick crimson carpet which was soft ....Twin fires burned beneath two marble fireplaces on either side of a magnificent staircase with golden bannisters.

And now let's meet the secondary character who has so enthralled me that he has to be the first one I have to introduce, including all his lines and mannerisms (for they give off a personality vibe rather similar to that of yours truly!):

... ‘and that,’ she said, pointing to a ball of orange light, inside which stood a young man with a plump, smiley face, ‘is Optimism. They’ll entertain you while I tell His Majesty his guests have arrived.’

...Optimism came bounding over ..., beaming from ear to ear. He had round, innocent eyes and, like Happiness, gave off a pleasant warmth. After seizing ... hand and shaking it, ... he cried, ‘Marvellous to meet you! What jolly good Things you are! I feel as though I’ve known you forever! Let’s be best friends!’

... said Optimism, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet.

...

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll find him! Everything will work out splendidly! And you’ll love our king! He’s a very good Thing –’ for just a second, Optimism’s smile faltered, but then he beamed as widely as ever ‘– deep down, you know!’

His theme colour is orange, my favourite. He gives off a pleasant warmth. He is "bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet," and, to cap it all, he's Optimism personified! Absolutely my cup of tea... (guess my Enneagram type and get free virtual Dermark Samhain treats!) Moreover...

‘Oh, I’m sure it will be a smashing story!’ said Optimism, still beaming. ... wondered how he could smile so much without his face hurting.

...

Optimism settled into the seat opposite ..., smiling as widely as ever. ‘There’s no need to be nervous!’ he called across the table. ‘I just know everything will turn out wonderfully!’ 

...

‘And you, Optimism?’ demanded King Power. 

‘I told them everything would work out wonderfully!’ said Optimism, his lip wobbling. ‘I told them you were good and kind, Power!’ 

‘VOTE!’ thundered Power. 

‘Well, I vote “no”,’ said Optimism, with a little sob. ‘And I’m sure that deep down, Power – deep, deep down – there’s a little bit of good in you, and when you’ve thought it over, you’ll change your mind and let them live in the palace with us!’ 

‘SHUT UP!’ roared Power.

...

However, there is a dark side to this story, and the reason why is that King Power and all his courtiers had owners, also known as masters, in the Land of the Living, AKA our own Muggle Earth, who lost them, and that was how they wound up in this palace/courtly setting.

To start with the Crimson King himself:

The crimson figure standing in the doorway made even Ambition, who’d entered the room behind him, seem dim by comparison. 

Beauty, Optimism, and the Principles bowed, while Memory dropped into a deep curtsey and fell silent at last. 

... the figure casting the scarlet light. He was a big, fierce-looking man with a sour expression and a jutting jaw. 

‘Welcome,’ he said, in a booming voice.

...

‘QUIET!’ yelled Power, banging his huge fist on the table. One of the crystal goblets toppled over and cracked.

...

‘My owner,’ said Power, beginning to pace up and down, ‘lost me by failing to stamp down hard enough,’ he smacked one huge fist into the other hand, ‘on his ENEMIES! ‘Together, we ruled an entire COUNTRY! To keep me, my master kept the PEOPLE,’ as Power bawled this word, he screwed up his face in disgust and hatred, ‘in their proper places, which is to say, ON THEIR KNEES!’ he thundered, a mad look in his bright red eyes. ‘But THEN,’ he bellowed, ‘a boy dared CHALLENGE my master in PUBLIC! And THAT CHILD,’ shouted Power, ‘gave the PEOPLE courage to REVOLT!’ Power’s voice rose to a scream. ‘AND I WAS SUCKED DOWN HERE, TO THE LAND OF THE LOST!’ 

Then Lady Ambition, his right-hand woman, ambassador, representative, and queen in everything but name, a scheming female figure who reminds me of Lady Mac... that Scotswoman with the bloodstains:

Here the mysterious figure threw back her hood. She glowed with violet light as Happiness had shone with gold, but gave off no heat. Her face looked older than that of Happiness, and rather less kind. 

'... we have a royal family here ... I am His Majesty’s ambassador. ....'

...

The violet lady accepted the news that they were ready to follow her with a brief smile, which showed her rather pointed teeth, then led them towards the palace, her black cloak flying behind her in the breeze.

...

‘The king’s in charge of the Loss Adjustors here ..., and I’m His Majesty’s representative. Good evening to you!’ she said grandly to the pencil sharpener and the mallet, who both bowed as each opened a door. The mallet’s head was so heavy he nearly toppled over, but saved himself by clutching the door handle. ‘

Good evening, Your Excellency,’ they said together.

At the foot of the stairs stood the very same diamond earrings .... They seemed to be employed now as maids, because they took the violet lady’s black cloak, bowed, then wriggled away, disappearing through a side door. 

...

 Now that she was unrobed, their companion filled the hall with her violet light. A tall, thin woman, she looked down at them as she said, ‘My name is Ambition.’ 

‘How does someone lose their ambition?’ ...

 ‘By being a fool,’ said Ambition coldly. ‘My mistress and I achieved great things together. She’s a politician – or rather, she was. She suffered a small setback – lost a trifling vote – but that oughtn’t to have mattered!’ cried Ambition, coming to a sudden halt, ... Her eyes emitted sparks, ... ‘We could have recovered from that setback and climbed together to even greater heights! But no… she lost me, the weak-willed fool!’ shouted Ambition, shaking her fist at the finding hole in the ceiling. 

The sound of her words echoing off the marble walls seemed to bring Ambition back to herself. She took several deep breaths. ‘My apologies,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’ve lived here in the palace for several years now, waiting for her to find me again. Sometimes I fear it will never happen… ....'

...

Hope says even: ‘Ambition has forgotten what night it is, up in the Land of the Living.’ (ie Christmas Eve during the setting of the novel)

Happiness radiates golden yellow light, just like a Hollywood star, because her owner/mistress was a celebrity actress:

... a dazzling golden light. It was as though the sun was sitting beside them.

‘I’m not a burning coal,’ said the same lady’s voice as before, which came from the very middle of the blazing light. It was so bright that ... had to close ... eyes for a moment, but he could see the Thing, even through ... ‘I’m Happiness.' 

....

A blaze of golden light filled the dining hall, as Happiness entered.

‘I – I thought you needed a rest after your long journey, Your Highness,’ said Ambition nervously, dropping into a curtsey as Happiness moved into the room, shedding golden light all around her. 

‘I didn’t think you’d want to be bothered with this tedious bit of business, the very evening you arrived.’ ‘How did you get OUT?’ demanded Power. ‘Come to that – how did you get through THOSE doors?’

... the extreme brightness of Happiness, and ... if ... peeped at her sideways, ... could just make out the form of a smiling woman in the middle of the dazzling light. 

...

‘How were you lost?’ ... 

‘Through carelessness,’ sighed Happiness. ‘My owner is an actress. She’s charming and talented, but she wasn’t as kind as she should have been to the people she cared about, nor as hard-working as she might have been, even though she loved her job. Her gifts once brought her friends and success, but through laziness and selfishness they slipped away and now, sadly, she has lost me, too.’

‘How will she get you back again?’ ...

‘It will be difficult,’ said Happiness, ‘because she’s looking for me in all the wrong places, and as she isn’t used to admitting fault, I’m afraid I may be in this place for a long time… perhaps forever.'

Then little old Memory, whose owner appears to be an old lady with Alzheimer's:

A ball of indigo light entered. ...   a very old lady shuffling along in its centre. 

‘Good evening,’ she said in a high, cracked voice.

...

‘This is Memory,’ said Optimism.

Memory peered ... for a moment or two, then said, ‘Eighty-five years ago my mistress owned a pig, but hers was of china; what we call a piggy bank. Its sides were painted with little blue flowers and she used to keep her pocket money inside it. One Sunday afternoon, eighty-four years ago, my mistress’s younger sister, Amelia Louise—’ 

‘Memory,’ said Beauty with a yawn, ‘nobody’s interested. Nobody cares.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it will be a smashing story!’ said Optimism, still beaming. ... wondered how he could smile so much without his face hurting.

‘—broke that piggy bank with the little blue flowers—’

'We’ve heard this at least a thousand times already,’ groaned Beauty, while Memory continued to mumble.

... 

‘Eighty years ago,’ piped up Memory, ‘my mistress’s sister, Amelia Louise, was caught lying when—’

...

‘Sixty-nine years ago,’ said Memory, in her high, cracked voice, ‘my mistress and her sister, Amelia Louise, went to see a movie called The Fugitive—’ 

‘Memory, concentrate,’ snapped Ambition. ‘We’re taking a vote. ...'

...

The old lady glowing with indigo light turned her gaze .... There was a long silence. Then Memory said, ‘No. They don’t stop me remembering things. I like them.’

The six Principles take the appearance of middle-aged gentlemen in business suits (their light sky blue) because their businessman master sacrificed them in the name of greed:

The door at the far end of the room opened again. Six balls of glowing sky blue light entered the room, each of which had an identical man inside it, all of them small and neat and serious-looking.

‘Good evening,’said the six blue men, speaking with one voice, and drowning out Memory, who continued to mumble her story about the piggy bank. ‘We are the Principles.’

They bowed in unison ...

The Principles seemed to have heard ..., because they answered together, ‘We are the Things who make humans behave with honesty and decency. Alas, our owner – a businessman – lost us one by one in pursuit of riches. He is now a wealthy crook. He likes the money, yet he is unhappy, because he knows he was better-loved and respected while he still had us. Unfortunately, lost Principles are among the hardest Things to find, so we expect to live here forever. We have therefore taken on a new job. We attempt to keep the king on the path of righteousness.’ 

‘And does the king often need your help?’ ...

Hope is a strongly-built female with pink light and angelic wings (she's the only courtier with wings) and she is somewhat an outsider at the palace, maybe because Hope is the virtue of underdogs, and, unsurprisingly, her mistress/owner turns out to be a female political prisoner living in a sordid prison in a dictatorship (Rowling had lived in Salazar's Portugal for a while, and even named Slytherin's founder after the Portuguese dictator):

... a woman as tall as Ambition, though far more strongly built. She was very beautiful, but the soft pink light she gave off was less bright than that of the other Things. Unlike her fellow royals, she had wings: not stiff, upstanding wings of golden plastic, ... but vast feathery wings of white shading to deep pink, which trailed behind her on the floor like a train.

Hope is very honest, even saying:  ‘Ambition has forgotten what night it is, up in the Land of the Living.’ (ie Christmas Eve during the setting of the novel)

In Chapter 49, 'The Story of Hope', we also get the story of her owner/mistress:

‘How were you lost, Hope?’ ...

‘That’s a sad story, I’m afraid,’ came Hope’s voice, over the beating of her wings. ‘My owner is in prison.’

‘Prison?’ .... ‘What did they do?’ 

‘Nothing wrong,’ said Hope. ‘On the contrary, she was doing a good thing: protesting against a ruler very like Power. The ruler was furious, so he locked her up, pretending she’d broken the law. The judge was too scared to rule against the president, so my owner is currently in a cell with ten others, where there isn’t enough to eat and barely room to lie down.’ 

‘That’s terrible!’ ...

‘It is,’ agreed Hope. ‘At this moment, she can’t see how things will ever get better for her, because they’ve told her she’ll be in prison for twenty years. She lost me when she heard the length of her sentence, but she’ll find me again, and sooner than she thinks.’

‘How do you know?’ ...

‘She has a wonderful family and many friends outside the prison walls,’ said Hope. ‘When she realises that they’re working hard to free her, she’ll find me again and I’ll help her bear her situation, dreadful though it is. I may not shine as brightly as my friend Happiness, but my flame is harder to extinguish.’

But, surprisingly, of my favourite character Optimism's owner in the Living World there is nothing to be said in the novel. Who was Optimism's owner? Rowling never gives us the slightest hint of backstory. 

Given that King Power and all his courtiers are the same gender and probably around the same age as their owners in the Land of the Living, I have a hunch that Optimism's owner is male and probably still young... But what happened to him in order for this young fellow to lose optimism? Trauma? War PTSD? Drug addiction? Heartbreak? Surely a combination of at last two of them above is a subject too mature to be discussed in a middle-grade novel like The Christmas Pig, hence why the subject of Optimism's owner was left vague.

Beauty, by the way, whose backstory and owner/master in the Living World are not given either, is subversively portrayed as male, a dashing narcissist bathed in a green glow (maybe a reference to the dangerous arsenic-laced Paris Green dye?):

In front of another fire, in a ball of emerald light, stood a very handsome young man who was examining himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. He looked delighted with what he saw there.

‘Good evening,’ he said, without taking his eyes off his own reflection, but turning his head this way and that, to get a better view of his profile. 

‘That’s Beauty,’ said Ambition, indicating the green man,... 

We can only assume that Beauty's master was also young and male, and that he was most surely disfigured in one way or another, thus "losing beauty" and that was how this personification wound up at the Palace of King Power, in the Land of the Lost.

PS. THE PALACE SCENE IN THE CHRISTMAS PIG AS PSYCHOMACHIA

... a questionable host, Power, who, like Lucifera, is a dangerous ruler consumed with pride. His “ambassador” Ambition may not seem to be quite as dangerous as Lucifera’s councilors, but her pointed teeth, like Beauty’s mirror, make both of them quite similar to Spenser’s personified Sins, and it is important to note that Power did not invite the Principles to dinner, only Beauty, Ambition, and Optimism, the Things that will allow him to get what he wants. 

By the time we enter King Power’s palace, this symbolism is well established and what Rowling writes in the chapters about the vote taken among palace inhabitants we get a much larger picture of soul than just its inner essence and noetic capacity. 

 The palace becomes a stage for the drama played out in every conscious person between the inner life of love, hope, and blessedness and the path of pursuing exterior advantage and power; the players are aspects of every person who must decide if they will serve King Power, a stand-in for ego and pride, or Jack Jones, the Christos (Saviour) within us.

On the side of Power are Ambition, Beauty, and three of the six Principles. The arguments Ambition and Power advance to win these votes are the necessity of carrying out punishments according to the letter of the law regardless of the injustice involved, a payout of some kind, i.e., personal advantage, and, obscure at first but clarified in Power’s rage, the threat of violence. They do their best, in addition, to lock-out voters they don’t want to participate in this run-off election in the capitol building or palace (‘capitol’ is derived from the word for ‘head’ and I think it helps to think of the palace as the movie location for our soul aspects debating whether Peter or John will triumph, whether the Heart lives or dies in that assembled body.

Memory, the mother of the nine mythological muses and a necessity for coherent thinking, is represented as a good-hearted if obviously senescent older woman. She votes against King Power despite being bullied by Ambition and told by Green Beauty she is a bore because “They don’t stop me from remembering. I like them” (206). Memory has a clear connection with tradition and only those with great recall or prodigious study of history appreciate the primacy of the Heart in the human person.

Three of the six Principles are persuaded by CP’s plea that turning Jack and himself over to the Loser would be murder and “that’s the worst crime of all!” Principles, who claim to be “the Things who make humans behave with honesty and decency” (199) based on their inner prompting in resistance to external temptations, clearly are not sure votes when it comes to choosing between the Petrine law and Johannine justice.

Optimism votes against the King though he, too, is brow-beaten by King Power. Optimism gives the first impression of superficiality and of being a glad-hander. It turns out he is only a mental posture that is sensitive first to the “deep-down, you know!” (199, 206) — and Jack and CP are the deepest aspect of the soul, that is, the Heart — so he votes that they not only be saved but also that the king “change your mind and let them live in the palace with us!” (206). He presents the possibility of Ego and Pride co-existing peacefully in the thinking of the same individual mind with the humble but all-powerful Heart and Conscience. Certainly an optimistic idea given the profundity of the contraries, like Harry and Draco being buddies.

Hope and Happiness were not told about the meeting or invited by Power and Ambition. The Principles were told to stay in their rooms but elected to come because “it would have been against ourselves” to stay away. Happiness, in contrast, was locked in her room and left unaware of the vote. Both she and Hope were locked out of the Palace room in which the vote was to be held.

Ambition had told that she was lost by her owner, a politician, after the “small setback” of not winning a “trifling vote” (194). She clearly has counted the votes in advance, consequently, and been sure that Hope and Happiness will not be on the side of Power. Why?

Hope clearly is an interior virtue, one somewhat akin to Optimism but is the strength and sustenance primarily to the underdog, the person or, in this case, the faculty of soul that has little to no exterior aspect or power. It is easy to imagine Hope residing in the Heart; this attribute certainly proves to be the saving virtue Jack demonstrates having acquired in the Land of the Lost during his confrontation with the Loser in his Lair. She is the bain of Power and the friend of Happiness and the Heart.

Happiness is warmth and light, so, as mentioned, she is representative of the logos light of the world that is the inner life of every human This is difficult to see at first because we have been taught to think that happiness is getting all things we want, especially advantage, pleasure, and power. Rowling is careful to have Happiness explain to the hide-aways in her gondola that she is more of a cross between empathy and healthy self-awareness:

‘How were you lost?’ ... 

‘Through carelessness,’ sighed Happiness. ‘My owner is an actress. She’s charming and talented, but she wasn’t as kind as she should have been to the people she cared about, nor as hard-working as she might have been, even though she loved her job. Her gifts once brought her friends and success, but through laziness and selfishness they slipped away and now, sadly, she has lost me, too.’

‘How will she get you back again?’ ...

‘It will be difficult,’ said Happiness, ‘because she’s looking for me in all the wrong places, and as she isn’t used to admitting fault, I’m afraid I may be in this place for a long time… perhaps forever.'

The actress is not a reflective person, is unkind even “to those she cared about,” is negligent with respect to her vocation, which is to say, her defining idea, is insensitive to the spiritual light and darkness of her environment, and, worst, “she isn’t used to admitting fault.” These qualities expel Happiness — and all of them are the marks of someone insensitive to the logos within his or her self, the capacity to love another person as oneself, and, as noted above, to feel remorse or repentance after injuring or being insensitive to the others who share the same ontological ground. Happiness, as Ambition recognized, is a sister of Heart, more eudaimonia — ‘blessedness,’ “the good composed of all goods; an ability which suffices for living well; perfection in respect of virtue; resources sufficient for a living creature” — than self-focused cheer on account of faring well and having great pleasures.

As Ambition must have anticipated, hence her attempts to have the meeting in the mind about Heart without Hope or Happiness, the ‘Do or Don’t turn them over?’ will not win the majority of the qualities of mind. King Power, however, our ego exteriorization as a character, is a true servant of the Loser who feels free to break the rules of His own kingdom. He sics the Palace Loss Adjusters on Jack and CP who escape them by the blinding light Happiness gives off and by Hope’s rapid and powerful intervention to save them.

If Compass were telling this story, she would provide a moral or motto; my re-telling should list a simple explanation of Rowling’s allegorical decision making process in the Palace.

• The question in play is whether Power or the Heart will be the guiding concern of Everyhuman, whether their focus will be on the inner Up There (Living World) or on worldly exterior concerns in the visible plane.
• The vote is very close because, especially today, trusting the Heart to discern what is best for the person in the long and short term rather than faculties adept to calculating privilege depends entirely on the presence of Hope and Happiness, the virtues the Power-ego will do everything to prevent them to have a voice in the decision.
• In the rare case that the Heart wins, fair and square, Power — the demands and concerns of exterior life, the desire for approval and confirmation from without but not above or within — will do everything to divide the Heart-servant from the Truth to be found on the Island of the Blessed.
• If Power decrees his rule overrules the law within the mind, the Heart is fed to the loser and the Heart-within dies. The death of “the Living Boy” or Heart, akin to the murder of the ‘Boy Who Lived,’ is the spiritual death of the person and their surrender to the ephemeral understanding to be had on the horizontal plane divorced from the greater reality Up There.
• The light of Happiness and the wings of Hope deliver the Heart from the dualistic or dis-integrating forces serving ego and pride, the powers of corruption in alliance against the Heart, to a paradise well removed from the Palace of the Soul and its capacities. Heart learns the Truth necessary to defeat the Loser-Satan, a shade of life without the inner life of love-logos, and return to the greater reality Up There in which the Heart can experience accept the Love.

This is a Medieval Morality Play, one very similar in construction to the Chamber of Secrets confrontation between Harry the Heart saving his best friend’s sister from the Memory of an Ego that never knew his mother’s love. (Not to mention the ties to Memory, Ambition, and Beauty; can you say ‘Gilderoy’?). I close here with the promise of writing more on the anagogical psychomachia of this story and of Rowling as a sacred artist depicting the soul’s journey to perfection in the Spirit.

... the Psychomachia in the Palace of Power vote of Soul Faculties to decide the fate ...

Hope and Happiness, though borderline mythological compared to other lost Things, play the roles of ex machina saviors ...

LLUVIA, TRUENOS Y TORMENTA EN EL BOSQUE

LLUVIA, TRUENOS Y TORMENTA EN EL BOSQUE

Las alondras le entonaban un dulce canto al amanecer, las flores se despertaban abriendo sus coloridos pétalos y los insectos comenzaban a trabajar sobre los troncos y las ramas de los árboles.

También un conejito salía de su madriguera dando saltitos porque aprovecharía el comienzo del día  para recolectar granos y zanahorias. Se divertía saltando por encima de las plantas gramíneas y de vez en cuando cortaba hierbas con sus incisivos superiores. También se recreaba rodando por el suelo.

¡Todo era maravilloso! ¡Un día soleado! Una nueva oportunidad para hacer las cosas que más le gustaban en el bosque.

Pero de repente, unas nubes negras provenientes de las altas montañas viajaban con la fuerza del viento y amenazaban con  acercarse al centro del bosque. El viento soplaba cada vez más fuerte y las gotitas de agua comenzaban a caer y a evaporarse por el calor de la tierra.

Pasaban los segundos, las gotas se hacían cada vez más grandes y se precipitaban sobre el suelo repetidamente formando grandes charcos de agua.

El conejito con sus pelos mojados miró para todos los lados pensando a dónde iría a refugiarse. ¡Estaba solo y asustado!

Pero la lluvia seguía cayendo, mientras

los truenos y relámpagos rugían de tal manera que parecía que el cielo iba a desplomarse. Entonces el sol decidió esconderse dejando el bosque a oscuras. También los pajarillos se ocultaron y las águilas decidieron volar por encima de la tormenta.

Entonces el conejito espantado corrió y se escondió aferrándose al tronco hueco de un árbol. Pero al ver a lo lejos que un rayo partió otro gran árbol en dos, se dio cuenta que estaba en el refugio equivocado.

Corrió nuevamente mezclándose sus lágrimas con la lluvia que caía, su corazón latía tan fuerte que sentía que se iba a desmayar. Pero levantó la mirada y vio una enorme roca con sus más altos picos y corrió hacia ella hasta que encontró refugio en una pequeña cueva. Allí arriba permanecía cobijado pensando que los tiempos difíciles no duran para siempre. 

Autora: María Abreu. (Con cariño para Yolanda).

LA HEBRA DE ALGODÓN

Un cuento para hacernos mejores

La hebra de algodón

Relato contemporáneo, autor desconocido

 

La leyenda habla de: soledad/compañía, apoyo, espíritu de equipo, cobardía/fuerza emprendedora, pesimismo/optimismo, llevar a cabo una tarea.
Principios para los narradores: Esta historia nos demuestra que nadie es demasiado pequeñ@ para ayudar. Si dos seres débiles se unen, ¡se hacen fuertes! En este caso, se funden en una apacible velita capaz de iluminar el mundo con su luz.

Pequeñas causas, grandes efectos:

¡la luz ahuyenta la oscuridad!

Había una vez una pequeña hebra de algodón que temía no servir para nada: "Para un cabo de barco, soy demasiado frágil ---se decía---, y para un jersey, demasiado corta. Tengo miedo de atarme a otras hebras, y demasiadas manías. Tampoco sirvo para un bordado, soy demasiado pálida y descolorida. Si fuera más brillante podrían utilizarme para adornar una estola o un vestido. Pero, ¿tal y como soy? ¡No basto para nada! Nadie me necesita. A nadie le gusto; y a mí misma, menos que a nadie más". Así se hablaba la pequeña hebra de algodón, mientras escuchaba música triste hundida en su propia compasión.
Entonces llamó a su puerta un trocito de cera, y le dijo: "Vamos, hebra, no te deprimas. He tenido una idea: tú y yo nos podríamos unir. Como mecha para una vela de Navidad eres demasiado corta, y yo no tengo suficiente cera, pero juntas bastamos perfectamente para una lamparilla. ¡Es mucho mejor encender una luz, aunque sea pequeña, que estar siempre quejándose de la oscuridad!"
La hebra de algodón se puso muy contenta, se unió al trocito de cera y dijo: "¡Ahora mi existencia vuelve a tener sentido!"
Y quién sabe, quizás haya en el mundo muchas otras hebras cortitas y otros muchos trocitos de cera que, si se unieran, podrían iluminar el mundo.

Sugerencias para charlar y jugar

• ¿Quién ha vivido alguna vez una experiencia parecida a la de la hebra de algodón? ¿En qué casos podríamos unirnos a alguien para lograr algo que solos no somos capaces de realizar?
• ¿Quién va a intentar hacer una lamparilla o una velita con una hebra y un poco de cera? Puede ser un regalo muy bonito.
• Comentemos con los demás estas dos expresiones "mágicas" que nos ayudan a llevar a la práctica la paz y la convivencia: "¡nadie es demasiado pequeño para ayudar!" y "¡juntos somos más fuertes!"

The Dial of Flowers in Uppsala

The Dial of Flowers in Uppsala A Victorian Floral Poem    This dial was formed by Carl Linnæus, and marked the hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flowers arranged in it.

’Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours,   As they floated in light away, By the opening and the folding flowers,   That laugh to the summer’s day. Thus had each moment its own rich hue,            And its graceful cup and bell, In whose colored vase might sleep the dew,   Like pearl in an ocean shell. So might the days have been brightly told—   Those days of song and dreams— When shepherds gathered their flocks of old            By the blue Arcadian streams. So in those isles of delight, that rest   Far off in a breezeless main, Which many a bark, with a weary quest,   Has sought, but still in vain.          Yet is not life, in its real flight,   Marked thus—even thus—on earth, By the closing of one hope’s delight,   And another’s gentle birth? O, let us live, so that flower by flower,            Shutting in turn, may leave A lingerer still for the sunset hour,   A charm for the shaded eve.

NICOLAS LE PHILOSOPHE

Nicolas le philosophe

Après avoir servi son maître pendant sept ans, Nicolas lui dit :

– Maître, j'ai fait mon temps, je voudrais bien retourner près de ma mère ; donnez-moi mes gages.

– Tu m'as servi fidèlement comme intelligence et probité, répondit le maître de Nicolas ; la récompense sera en rapport avec le service.

Et il lui donna un lingot d'or, grand comme son avant-bras, qui pouvait bien peser cinq ou six livres. Nicolas tira son mouchoir de sa poche, y enveloppa le lingot, le chargea sur son épaule et se mit en route pour la maison paternelle.

En cheminant et en mettant toujours une jambe devant l'autre, il finit par croiser un cavalier qui venait à lui, joyeux et frais, et monté sur un beau cheval.

– Oh ! dit tout haut Nicolas, la belle chose que d'avoir un cheval ! On monte dessus, on est dans sa selle comme sur un fauteuil, on avance sans s'en apercevoir, et l'on n'use pas ses souliers.

Le cavalier, qui l'avait entendu, lui cria :

– Hé ! Nicolas, pourquoi vas-tu donc à pied ?

– Ah ! ne m'en parlez point, répondit Nicolas ; ça me fait d'autant plus de peine, que j'ai là, sur l'épaule, un lingot d'or qui me pèse tellement, que je ne sais à quoi tient que je ne le jette dans le fossé.

– Veux-tu faire un échange ? demanda le cavalier.

– Lequel ? fit Nicolas.

– Je te donne mon cheval, donne-moi ton lingot d'or.

– De tout mon cœur, dit Nicolas ; mais, je vous préviens, il est lourd en diable.

– Bon ! ce n'est point là ce qui empêchera le marché de se faire, dit le cavalier.

Et il descendit de son cheval, prit le lingot d'or, aida Nicolas à monter sur la bête et lui mit la bride en main.

– Quand tu voudras aller doucement, dit le cavalier, tu tireras la bride à toi en disant : « Oh ! » Quand tu voudras aller vite, tu lâcheras la bride en disant : « Hop ! »

Le cavalier, devenu piéton, s'en alla avec son lingot ; Nicolas, devenu cavalier, continua son chemin avec son cheval.

Nicolas ne se possédait pas de joie en se sentant si carrément assis sur sa selle ; il alla d'abord au pas, car il était assez médiocre cavalier, puis au trot, puis il s'enhardit et pensa qu'il n'y aurait pas de mal à faire un petit temps de galop.

Il lâcha donc la bride et fit clapper sa langue en criant :

– Hop ! hop !

Le cheval fit un bond, et Nicolas roula à dix pas de lui.

Puis, débarrassé de son cavalier, le cheval partit à fond de train, et Dieu sait où il se fût arrêté, si un paysan qui conduisait une vache ne lui eût barré le chemin.

Nicolas se releva, et, tout froissé, se mit à courir après le cheval, que le paysan tenait par la bride ; mais, tout triste de sa déconfiture, il dit au brave homme :

– Merci, mon ami !... C'est une sotte chose que d'aller à cheval, surtout quand on a une rosse comme celle-ci, qui rue, et, en ruant, vous démonte son homme de manière à lui casser le cou. Quant à moi, je sais bien une chose, c'est que jamais je ne remonterai dessus. Ah ! continua Nicolas avec un soupir, j'aimerais bien mieux une vache ; on la suit à son aise par derrière, et l'on a, en outre, son lait par-dessus le marché, sans compter le beurre et le fromage, et les yaourts... Foi de Nicolas ! je donnerais bien des choses pour avoir une vache comme la vôtre.

– Eh bien, dit le paysan, puisqu'elle vous plaît tant, prenez-la ; je consens à l'échanger contre votre cheval.

Nicolas fut transporté de joie : il prit la vache par son licol ; le paysan enfourcha le cheval et disparut.

Et Nicolas se remit en route, chassant la vache devant lui, et songeant à l'admirable marché qu'il venait de faire.

Il arriva à une auberge, et, dans sa joie, il mangea tout ce qu'il avait emporté de chez son maître, c'est-à-dire un excellent morceau de pain et de fromage ; puis, comme il avait deux liards dans sa poche, il se fit servir un demi-verre de bière et continua de conduire sa vache du côté de son village natal.

Vers midi, la chaleur devint étouffante, et, juste en ce moment, Nicolas se trouvait au milieu d'une lande qui avait bien encore deux lieues de longueur.

La chaleur était si insupportable, que le pauvre Nicolas en tirait la langue de trois pouces hors de la bouche.

– Il y a un remède à cela, se dit Nicolas : je vais traire ma vache et me régaler de lait.

Il attacha la vache à un arbre desséché, et, comme il n'avait pas de seau, il posa à terre son bonnet de cuir ; mais, quelque peine qu'il se donnât, il ne put faire sortir une goutte de lait de la mamelle de la bête.

Ce n'était pas que la vache n'eût point de lait, mais Nicolas s'y prenait mal, si mal, que la bête rua, comme on dit, en vache, et, d'un de ses pieds de derrière, lui donna un tel coup à la tête, qu'elle le renversa, et qu'il fut quelque temps à rouler à droite et à gauche, sans parvenir à se remettre sur ses pieds.

Par bonheur, un charcutier vint à passer avec sa charrette, où il y avait un porc.

– Eh ! eh ! demanda le charcutier, qu'y a-t-il donc, mon ami ? es-tu ivre ?

– Non pas, dit Nicolas, au contraire, je meurs de soif.

– Cela ne serait pas une raison : nul n'est plus altéré qu'un ivrogne ; au reste, et à tout hasard, mon pauvre garçon, bois un coup.

Il aida Nicolas à se remettre sur ses pieds et lui présenta sa gourde.

Nicolas l'approcha de sa bouche et y but une large gorgée.

Puis, ayant reprit ses sens :

– Voulez-vous me dire, demanda-t-il au charcutier, pourquoi ma vache ne donne pas de lait ?

Le charcutier se garda bien de lui dire que c'était parce qu'il ne savait point la traire.

– Ta vache est vieille, lui dit-il, et n'est plus bonne à rien.

– Pas même à tuer ? demanda Nicolas.

– Qui diable veux-tu qui mange de la vieille vache ? Autant manger de la vache enragée !

– Ah ! dit Nicolas, si j'avais un joli petit porc comme celui-ci, à la bonne heure ! cela est bon depuis les pieds jusqu'à la tête : avec la chair, on fait du salé ; avec les entrailles, on fait des andouillettes ; avec le sang, on fait du boudin.

– écoute, dit le charcutier, pour t'obliger... mais c'est purement et simplement pour t'obliger... je te donnerai mon porc, si tu veux me donner ta vache.

– Que Dieu te récompense, brave homme ! dit Nicolas.

Et, remettant sa vache au charcutier, il descendit le porc de la charrette et prit le bout de la corde pour le conduire.

Nicolas continua sa route en songeant combien tout allait selon ses désirs.

Il n'avait pas fait cinq cents pas, qu'un jeune garçon le rattrapa. Celui-ci portait sous son bras une oie grasse.

Pour passer le temps, Nicolas commença à parler de son bonheur et des échanges favorables qu'il avait faits.

De son côté, le jeune garçon lui raconta qu'il portait son oie pour un festin de baptême.

– Pèse-moi cela par le cou, dit-il à Nicolas. Hein ! est-ce lourd ! Il est vrai que voilà huit semaines qu'on l'engraisse avec des châtaignes. Celui qui mordra là-dedans devra s'essuyer la graisse des deux côtés du menton.

– Oui, dit Nicolas en la soupesant d'une main, elle a son poids ; mais mon cochon pèse bien vingt oies comme la tienne.

Le jeune garçon regarda de tous côtés d'un air pensif, et en secouant la tête :

– écoute, dit-il à Nicolas, je ne te connais que depuis dix minutes, mais tu m'as l'air d'un brave garçon ; il faut que tu saches une chose, c'est qu'il se pourrait qu'à l'endroit de ton cochon, tout ne fût pas bien en ordre : dans le village que je viens de traverser, on en a volé un au percepteur. Je crains fort que ce ne soit justement celui que tu mènes. Ils ont requis la maréchaussée et envoyé des gens pour poursuivre le voleur, et, tu comprends, ce serait une mauvaise affaire pour toi si l'on te trouvait conduisant ce cochon. Le moins qu'il pût t'arriver, ce serait d'être conduit en prison jusqu'au moment où l'affaire serait éclaircie.

à ces mots, la peur saisit Nicolas.

– Jésus Dieu ! dit-il, tire-moi de ce mauvais pas, mon garçon ; tu connais ce pays que j'ai quitté depuis quinze ans, de sorte que tu as plus de défense que moi. Donne-moi ton oie et prends mon cochon.

– Diable ! fit le jeune garçon, je joue gros jeu ; cependant, je ne puis laisser un camarade dans l'embarras.

Et, donnant son oie à Nicolas, il prit le cochon par la corde, et se jeta avec lui dans un chemin de traverse.

Nicolas continua sa route, débarrassé de ses craintes, et portant gaiement son oie sous son bras.

– En y réfléchissant bien, se disait-il, je viens, outre la crainte dont je suis débarrassé, de faire un marché excellent. D'abord, voilà une oie qui va me donner un rôti délicieux, et qui, tout en rôtissant, me donnera une masse de graisse avec laquelle je ferai des tartines pendant trois mois, sans compter les plumes blanches qui me confectionneront un bon oreiller, sur lequel, dès demain au soir, je vais dormir sans être bercé. Oh ! c'est ma mère qui sera contente, elle qui aime tant l'oie !

Il achevait à peine ces paroles, qu'il se trouva côte à côte avec un homme qui portait un objet enfermé dans sa cravate, qu'il tenait pendue à la main.

Cet objet gigottait de telle façon, et imprimait à la cravate de tels balancements, qu'il était évident que c'était un animal vivant, et que cet animal regrettait fort sa liberté.

– Qu'avez-vous donc là, compagnon ? demanda Nicolas.

– Où, là ? fit le voyageur.

– Dans votre cravate.

– Oh ! ce n'est rien, répondit le voyageur en riant.

Puis, regardant autour de lui pour voir si personne n'était à portée d'entendre ce qu'il allait dire :

– C'est une perdrix que je viens de prendre au collet, dit-il ; seulement, je suis arrivé à temps pour la prendre vivante. Et vous, que portez-vous là ?

– Vous le voyez bien, c'est une oie, et une belle, j'espère.

Et, tout fier de son oie, Nicolas la montra au braconnier.

Celui-ci regarda l'oie d'un air de dédain, la prit et la flaira.

– Hum ! dit-il, quand comptez-vous la manger ?

– Demain au soir, avec ma mère.

– Bien du plaisir ! dit en riant le braconnier.

– Je m'en promets, en effet, du plaisir ; mais pourquoi riez-vous ?

– Je ris, parce que votre oie est bonne à manger aujourd'hui, et encore, encore, en supposant que vous aimiez les oies faisandées.

– Diable ! vous croyez ? fit Nicolas.

– Mon cher ami, sachez cela pour votre gouverne : quand on achète une oie, on l'achète vivante ; de cette façon-là, on la tue quand on veut, et on la mange quand il convient : croyez-moi, si vous voulez tirer de votre oie un parti quelconque, faites-la rôtir à la première auberge que vous rencontrerez sur votre chemin, et mangez-la jusqu'au dernier morceau.

– Non, dit Nicolas ; mais faisons mieux : prenez mon oie, qui est morte, et donnez-moi votre perdrix, qui est vivante : je la tuerai demain au matin, et elle sera bonne à manger demain au soir.

– Un autre te demanderait du retour ; mais, moi, je suis bon compagnon ; quoique ma perdrix soit vivante et que ton oie soit morte, je te donne ma perdrix troc pour troc.

Nicolas prit la perdrix, la mit dans son mouchoir, qu'il noua par les quatre coins, et, pressé d'arriver le plus tôt possible, il laissa son compagnon entrer dans une auberge pour y manger son oie, et continua sa route à travers le village.

Au bout du village, il trouva un rémouleur.

Le rémouleur chantait, tout en repassant des couteaux et des ciseaux, le premier couplet d'une chanson que connaissait Nicolas.

Nicolas s'arrêta et se mit à chanter le second couplet.

Le rémouleur chanta le troisième.

– Bon ! lui dit Nicolas, du moment que vous êtes gai, c'est que vous êtes content.

– Ma foi, oui ! répondit le rémouleur ; le métier va bien, et, chaque fois que je mets la main à la pierre, il en tombe une pièce d'argent. Mais que portez-vous donc là qui frétille ainsi dans votre cravate ?

– C'est une perdrix vivante.

– Ah !... Où l'avez-vous prise ?

– Je ne l'ai pas prise, je l'ai eue en échange d'une oie.

– Et l'oie ?

– Je l'avais eue en échange d'un cochon.

– Et le cochon ?

– Je l'avais eu en échange d'une vache.

– Et la vache ?

– Je l'avais eue en échange d'un cheval.

– Et le cheval ?

– Je l'avais eu en échange d'un lingot d'or.

– Et ce lingot d'or ?

– C'était le prix de mes sept années de service.

– Peste ! vous avez toujours su vous tirer d'affaire !

– Oui, jusqu'aujourd'hui, cela a assez bien marché ; seulement, une fois rentré chez ma mère, il me faudrait un état dans le genre du vôtre.

– Ah ! en effet, c'est un crâne état.

– Est-il bien difficile ?

– Vous voyez : il n'y a qu'à faire tourner la meule et en approcher les couteaux ou les ciseaux qu'on veut affûter.

– Oui ; mais il faut une pierre.

– Tenez, dit le rémouleur en poussant une vieille meule du pied, en voilà une qui a rapporté plus d'argent qu'elle ne pèse, et cependant elle pèse lourd !

– Et ça coûte cher, n'est-ce pas, une pierre comme celle-là ?

– Dame ! assez cher, fit le rémouleur ; mais, moi, je suis bon garçon : donnez-moi votre perdrix, je vous donnerai ma meule. ça vous va-t-il ?

– Parbleu ! est-ce que cela se demande ? dit Nicolas ; puisque j'aurai de l'argent chaque fois que je mettrai la main à la pierre, de quoi m'inquiéterais-je maintenant ?

Et il donna sa perdrix au rémouleur, et prit la vieille meule que l'autre avait mise au rebut.

Puis, la pierre sous le bras, il partit, le cœur plein de joie et les yeux brillants de satisfaction.

– Il faut que je sois né coiffé ! se dit Nicolas ; je n'ai qu'à souhaiter pour que mon souhait soit exaucé !

Cependant, après avoir fait une lieue ou deux, comme il était en marche depuis le point du jour, il commença, alourdi par le poids de la meule, à se sentir très fatigué ; la faim aussi le tourmentait, ayant mangé le matin ses provisions de toute la journée, tant sa joie était grande, on se le rappelle, d'avoir troqué sa vache pour un cheval ! à la fin, la fatigue prit tellement le dessus, que, de dix pas en dix pas, il était forcé de s'arrêter ; la meule aussi lui pesait de plus en plus, car elle semblait s'alourdir au fur et à mesure que ses forces diminuaient.

Il arriva, en marchant comme une tortue, au bord d'une fontaine où bouillonnait une eau aussi limpide que le ciel qu'elle reflétait ; c'était une source dont on ne voyait pas le fond.

– Allons, s'écria Nicolas, il est dit que j'aurai de la chance jusqu'au bout ; au moment où j'allais mourir de soif, voilà une fontaine !

Et, posant sa meule au bord de la source, Nicolas se mit à plat ventre, et but à sa soif pendant cinq minutes.

Mais, en se relevant, le genou lui glissa ; il voulut se retenir la meule, et, en se retenant, il poussa la pierre, qui tomba à l'eau et disparut dans les profondeurs de la source.

– En vérité ! dit Nicolas demeurant un instant à genoux pour prononcer son action de grâce, le bon Dieu est réellement bien bon de m'avoir débarrassé de cette lourde et maussade pierre, sans que j'aie le plus petit reproche à me faire.

Et, allégé de tout fardeau, les mains et les poches vides, mais le cœur joyeux, il reprit, tout courant, le chemin de la maison de sa mère. 

(Tradition orale; Alexandre Dumas d'après Andersen et les Grimm)

THE LITTLE GIRL WITH THE LIGHT

THE LITTLE GIRL WITH THE LIGHT

We can never dwell in shadows if our souls are full of light. Let the brightness of our being make the whole wide world as bright.

THE LITTLE GIRL WITH THE LIGHT

THERE once lived a little maiden to whom was given a wonderful light, which made her whole life bright.

When she was a wee baby it shone on her face in a beautiful smile, and her mother cried:—

"See! the angels have been kissing her!" And when she grew older it lighted up her eyes like sunshine, and gleamed on her forehead like a star.

All lovely things that loved light, loved her. The soft-cooing pigeons came at her call. The roses climbed up to her windows to peep at her, and the bluebirds and finches, and the butterflies, that looked like enchanted sunbeams, would circle about her head.

Her father was king of a country, and her mother was queen; and though she was not so tall as the tall white lily in the garden, or the weeds that grew outside, she had servants to wait on her, and grant her every wish, as if she were queen already.

She was dearer to her father and mother than all else that they possessed; and there was no happier king or queen or little maiden in any kingdom of the world, till one day when the king’s enemies came upon them like a whirlwind, and changed their joy to sorrow.

Their palace was seized, the servants were scattered, and the king and queen were carried away to a dark prison fortress in enemy country, where they sat and wept for their little daughter, for they knew not where she was.

No one knew but the old nursemaid, who had nursed the king himself. She had carried the child away, unnoticed amid the noise and strife, and set her in safety outside the palace walls.

 "Flee, precious one!" she cried, as she left her there. "Flee! for the enemy is upon us!" And the little maiden started out in the world alone.

She knew not where to go; so she wandered away through the fields and waste places, where nobody lived and only the grasshoppers seemed glad. But she was not afraid,—no! not even when she came to a great forest, at evening;—for she carried her light with her.

'Tis true that once she thought she saw a threatening ogre or troll waiting by the dusky path; but, when her light shone on it, it was only a pine tree, stretching out its friendly arms; and she laughed so merrily that all the woods laughed too.

"Who are you? Who are you?" asked an owl, blinking his eyes at the brightness of her face; and a little rabbit, startled by the sound, sprang from its hiding place in the bushes and fell trembling at her feet.

"Alas!" it panted as she bent in pity to offer help, "Alas! the hunters with their dogs and guns pursue me! But you flee, too! How can you help me?" But the child took the tiny creature in her arms and held it close; and when the huntsmen and hounds rushed through the tanglewood, they saw the light that lighted up her eyes like sunshine and gleamed on her forehead like a star, and came no further.

THE CHILD TOOK THE TINY CREATURE IN HER ARMS AND HELD IT CLOSE.

Then deeper into the great forest she went, bearing the rabbit still; and the wild beasts of prey heard her footsteps, and waited for her coming.

"Hush!" said the fox, "she is mine; for I will lead her from the path into the tanglewood!"

"Nay, she is mine!" howled the wolf; "for I will follow on her footsteps!"

"Mine! mine!" screamed the bear as well; "for I will spring upon her in the darkness, and she cannot escape me!"

So they quarreled among themselves, for they were wild beasts and knew no better; and as they snarled and growled and howled, the maiden walked in among them; and when the light which made her lovely fell upon them, they ran and hid themselves in the depths of the forest, and the child passed on in safety.

The rabbit still slept peacefully on her breast. At last she, too, grew weary, and lay down to sleep on the leaves and moss; and the birds of the forest watched her and sang to her, and nothing harmed her all the night.

In the morning a party of horsemen rode through the forest, looking behind each bush and tree as if they sought something very precious.

The forest glowed with splendor then, for the sun had come in all its glory to scatter darkness and wake up the world. The darkest dells and caves and lonely paths lost their horror in the morning light, and there were violets blooming in the shadows of the pines.

The leaves glistened, the flowers lifted their heads, and everything was glad but the horsemen, whose faces were full of gloom because their hearts were sad.

They did not speak or smile as they rode on their search; and their leader was the saddest of them all, though he wore a golden crown that sparkled with many jewels.

They followed each winding path through the forest, till at last they reached the spot where the little maiden lay.

The rabbit waked up at the sound of their coming, but the child slept till a loud cry of gladness awakened her and she found herself in her father’s arms.

In the night-time the king’s brave soldiers had driven the enemies from his land, and opened the doors of the prison in which he and the queen lay, and the king and queen had ridden with them in haste to find their darling child, who was worth the crown and the kingdom.

The sight of her face was the sunshine to lighten their hearts, and they sent the glad news far and near, with blast of trumpet and shouts of joy.

But in all their great happiness the child did not forget the rabbit, and she said to it, "Come with me and I will take care of you, for my father the king and my mother the queen are here." But  the rabbit thanked her and wanted to go home.

"My babies are waiting," it said, "and I have my work to do in the world. I pray you let me go."

So the child kissed it and bade it go; and she, too, went to her own dear home. There she grew lovelier every day, for the light grew with her; and when, long years afterward, she was queen of the country, the foxes and wolves and bears dared not harm her people, for her good knights drove evil from her land; but to loving gentle creatures, both humans and animals, she gave love and protection and she lived happily all the days of her life.

PARAPHRASES OF PARABLES BY GATTY

(From "The Voices of the Earth": a call and response about the problem of evil).

The breath of people who are suffering is even worse. There's the sigh of grief, which is understandably sad. There's the moaning of those whose bodies are in pain and whose souls are anguished or who have lost everything. There are the outcries of people who are abused or being taken advantage of. There are shrieks of insanity, and screams of people who are hurt, and despairing groans. I hear and carry all of these. Those dreadful voices haunt me wherever I go. The multitude of human suffering rots my very soul. I hear it in the most humble homes, and in the fanciest mansions. I run from the battlefield to the monastery, but it does no good, because even seclusion doesn't keep sorrow away from people. 

That's just not fair. You seem to be keeping such a detailed record of sighs and groans, but aren't you aware of their unceasing sounds of simple, natural joys? Maybe you can describe thousands of instances of sorrow, but I could respond by telling you about tens of thousands of joys. We enjoy peaceful years of health without a word of thanks and take every breath for granted for years. I'll bet you couldn't even count them! Try counting each breath as it floats up to you during the night while the sleeper passes a restful night. Count the breaths in a single morning, when the sleeper awakens to the dawn of a fresh, new day. Count the laughs of a child as he or she plays. Count the sweet expressions of happy lovers. You might be able to count the stars in the sky, but you could never count the daily evidences of routine earthly joys. How tragic to judge life only by its most jarring moments!


.........................................................................................................................


(From "The Deliverer"; on the lovers of pleasure / here, "those who lived for pleasure").

The hearts of everyone who heard the rumor thrilled with excitement. After all, who is so dense that they are unable realize how wretched their life is? Who doesn't look around and see that things should be better than they are? The people on the earth were only too aware of this. Death, sickness, endless hard labour, work done in vain, love that's not returned, stronger people triumphing over those who are right, wars, troubles, divided families, and a thousand other miseries of life--in every era, these things had plagued everyone from year to year. From one generation to the next, each person, as they became conscious of reason, came to realize the bitter, tragic fact that something was wrong with the world of their own time. At the same time, some strong instinct in their soul told them that it hadn't always been this way, and that it wouldn't be this way forever.
They knew that this Mighty One, whoever he was, would have different names: one of them was Prince of Peace. The burden of governing would be his responsibility, even though he would be born as a child.

Some latched onto the title "Prince of Peace," and thought everything could be explained by that. The conquering mentioned about him must mean that he would conquer and overcome strife. The superiority of Love would overcome all desires for conflict and everyone would work towards universal joy.

Surely when this Deliverer came, he would be able to make everyone happy and pour a healing tonic on every wound. Then all old sadnesses would be forgotten, and people's frustrated minds would be calmed, no longer troubled with struggles and difficult effort.

If only that day would come when everyone would be their own king or queen and realm, and the songs of rejoicing that gladdened the golden age could be heard all over the world! Isn't that what the prophets had said, and the poets had sung? Then every person would have their own grapevine or fig tree or arbour (or any other cool shady comfort zone) to sit under, and there would be no more poor or rich people because everybody would be equal, and everyone would be happy.

But when could they expect this Deliverer? Where would he come from? It would probably be in an unusually blessed part of the world, perhaps some beautiful, peaceful valley such as Cashmere, nestled among the Himalayan mountains. He would undoubtedly be living among a community of simple, contented people in a perfect family who never experienced turmoil and lived in happy harmony with each other. Such a person could only come from this kind of blissful, peaceful background--the kind of person who would cause harsh weapons of war to be turned into tools for farming the land, and would cause plants, animals, and even rocks to join together in one general song of joy.

So those who took that view looked for the Deliverer in peaceful valleys and quiet places where no disagreement ever happened. But they had no better luck--they kept on looking and waiting, and hoped Nature itself would confirm their hopes.

But humankind was on the wrong track. Even while darkness was blinding the minds, and earth was locked in the deadness of winter, while those who lived for pleasure hoped that the Deliverer would usher in earthly delights--the truth was, that the Immanent Will had chosen the common, unimportant things, and the things that are passed over so that "no person should have glory in the presence of a Greater Power."

That's right, He came in that very way while Nature was paralyzed and hopeless, and half the world was covered in freezing snow. He came in just that way, with healing on His wings--but not the kind of healing they were looking for. It wasn't deliverance from death or sadness, or freedom from pain, not even a payment to take away temptation and sin--but He came to make people "more than conquerors" through all of those things.

So go ahead and hang up holly and lights and tinsel over the winter landscape to remember the hope that human intelligence could never teach anyone. The Comforter did not arrive during the glorious days of summer. No, He came to His people when it was cold and dark. When important expectations come to nothing, that may be the time when He comes with healing on His wings to the soul of the humble person.