A is for...

While enjoying a Reese’s Cup at work this afternoon, I casually glanced at the calendar and realized that I was behind schedule already for the ABC-along being hosted by Vicki. Imagine my chagrin. So I hopped on my trusty computer and started typing.

Now I’ve been contemplating the letter A and words that would make a great first post for some time. I wanted something terrific, and different and special, as I have been a poor blogger up til now and wanted to redeem myself a bit. A number of ideas were mulled over and jotted down. Most were rejected. I wasn’t worried, though. I had plenty of time. We can see where that kind of thinking led me.

One idea that I thought had great possibilities was A is for Adipose Tissue. Thinking about it, I realized it was timely and topical, as most people I know are struggling with some additional Adipose Tissue they grew during the holidays. I even went so far as to read about it on Wikipedia, where I was adequately grossed out. (Warning: pictures of mouse adipose tissue, as in dissection. Yuck.) And then, the thought of providing a picture of my very own rolls of Adipose Tissue brought the whole idea to an end. The world is not yet ready for that.

The second choice, and one I’m glad to say did not involve pictures of me in any way, was A is for Aftermath. This is the time of year when I am preoccupied with sweeping up the bits and pieces leftover from the holidays. I reflect on the time that brought my family close to me and how happy it made all of us to be together, and I am grateful, even as I am left to wrestle the tree out the door and pack up the ornaments and organize the recycling and clean out the refrigerator, alone. The holidays were great. The aftermath makes me appreciate them even more.

And one other idea caught my mind. I’ve been taking a poetry appreciation class for awhile now. Poetry is important to me. I love how a wonderfully written poem can crystallize an idea or an experience so thoroughly, with few words.

And so I thought, perhaps A is for Auden. As in WH Auden. One of my favorite poems about the holidays was written by him. I thought I would close with it. I'm not certain I understand everything he's trying to say in it. But every time I read it, I find more to think about.

Christmas Oratorio

Well, so that is that.  Now we must dismantle the tree,
Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes --
Some have got broken -- and carrying them up to the attic.
The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school.  There are enough
Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week --
Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, attempted -- quite unsuccessfully --
To love all of our relatives, and in general
Grossly overestimated our powers.  Once again
As in previous years we have seen the actual Vision and failed
To do more than entertain it as an agreeable
Possibility, once again we have sent Him away,
Begging though to remain His disobedient servant,
The promising child who cannot keep His word for long.
The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory,
And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware
Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought
Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now
Be very far off.  But, for the time being, here we all are,
Back in the moderate Aristotelian city
Of darning and the Eight-Fifteen, where Euclid's geometry
And Newton's mechanics would account for our experience,
And the kitchen table exists because I scrub it.
It seems to have shrunk during the holidays.  The streets
Are much narrower than we remembered; we had forgotten
The office was as depressing as this.  To those who have seen
The Child, however dimly, however incredulously,
The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all.
For the innocent children who whispered so excitedly
Outside the locked door where they knew the presents to be
Grew up when it opened.  Now, recollecting that moment
We can repress the joy, but the guilt remains conscious;
Remembering the stable where for once in our lives
Everything became a You and nothing was an It.
And craving the sensation but ignoring the cause,
We look round for something, no matter what, to inhibit
Our self-reflection, and the obvious thing for that purpose
Would be some great suffering.  So, once we have met the Son,
We are tempted ever after to pray to the Father;
"Lead us into temptation and evil for our sake."
They will come, all right, don't worry; probably in a form
That we do not expect, and certainly with a force
More dreadful than we can imagine.  In the meantime
There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair,
Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem
From insignificance.  The happy morning is over,
The night of agony still to come; the time is noon:
When the Spirit must practice his scales of rejoicing
Without even a hostile audience, and the Soul endure
A silence that is neither for nor against her faith
That God's Will will be done, That, in spite of her prayers,
God will cheat no one, not even the world of its triumph.

-- W. H. Auden