christmas day i awoke into a trial. the prosecution held a strong case for giving in, for letting go of this starvation, of looking at my emaciated self in the long mirror and feeling sorry, finding evidence to my contrary, so i can return to the cell of complacency, where my meals and time are governed by the wardens of babylon. so i went for a walk.
by 11am, i was in a near empty church, having just missed mass by half an hour and walking in a circle, around the pews, and nodding at mary and jesus and paul and john and the three kings who guided by the stars appeared before the prophet that was known to arrive in the city of bethelehem in the land of palestine. i circled like i was in mecca, around the house of abraham, until i grew weaker in my fast and sat on a pew, right in the center of the golothic space with a never ending detailed stone roof. i sat, closed my eyes and began to meditate.
all praise is due. i walked around the ghastly city, never so devoid of people except this one time of year. their voices lingered like smoke that i inhaled as deeply as the muslim oil i had in my pocket, recalling the prophet's requirement to smell pleasant. the trains were running empty, as if a house suddenly vacated by it's boisterous inhabitants and i stepped in like a foreclosed tenant wanting to recall the scent of home.
home is behind the happenings, behind the boxes of gifts packed with stuff that will be in landfills in a few months and leave coming generations walking on an artificial earth, bloated with stuff it can't digest like the obese masses, consumed in their mirrors.
my christmas was with the hands of the prophet of bethlehem who stood nailed into a meditation so deep, none of the blood that flowed from his hands and thorn-crowned head were of consequence. none of the jeers of the masses of rome, who yelled obsecenities at the guru, mattered. there was a path beyond the moment of suffering. suffering is only a moment. all moments pass.
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