Santa Claus–The Real Story: I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her. On the way, my big sister dropped the bomb: “There is no Santa Claus,” she jeered. “Even dummies know that!” My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth. . .
Can Santa Be Black?: All year long I listen to the news, read people’s thoughts, see people’s views. At the end of the year, when I see what’s needed most, I take that shape, like a Christmas ghost. I can pass through keyholes, windows and locks, apartment buildings, hospitals, tents, and trailer lots. One year I used a wheelchair in place of my sleigh, once I was blind and had to feel my way. It’s hard to understand when I don’t leave a toy: You can’t unwrap a gift like hope or health or joy.
The Rabbi’s Gift: The story concerns a monastery that had fallen upon hard times. Once a great order, as a result of waves of antimonastic persecution in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and the rise of secularism in the nineteenth, all its branch houses were lost and it had become decimated to the extent that there were only five monks left in the decaying mother house: the abbot and four others, all over seventy in age. Clearly it was a dying order. . .
The Cab Ride: For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
Big Rocks of Life: As this man stood in front of the group of high-powered over achievers he said, “Okay, time for a quiz.” Then he pulled out a one-gallon, wide-mouthed Mason jar and set it on a table in front of him. Then he produced about a dozen fist-sized rocks and carefully placed them, one at a time, into the jar. When the jar was filled to the top and no more rocks would fit inside, he asked, “Is this jar full?” Everyone in the class said, “Yes.”
Be the Changes You Want to See: How would you change the world? How would you walk your talk? What would you stand for and believe in? This poem was written at a time in my life when I needed to review my vision often. The links are to pages on my website that delve deeper into the topic. I hope the poem inspires you to write your own.