Charles Martin:
Gazette du Bon Ton, 1914 - No. 1, Pl. III:
L'Arbre Merveilleux / Costumes d'enfants pour Noël (1914)

"The magic only ever comes after I feel overwhelmed enough… "

Once the leaves fall, the street opens up, appearing much broader and longer than during Spring or Summer. With winter closing fast, the world seems to be expanding. Its expectations stretch, too. I feel humbled by the sheer Enormity of the upcoming weeks. They seem irreducibly huge, and I feel incapable of coping with the expectations they bring. More threat than promise, the holiday season falls upon us, bringing a fresh set of obligations while we seem to have yet to greatly expand our capacities. These two hands will not become three regardless of the needs encountered. These two feet will slip when the street freezes. Socks have already become a mandatory part of the standard uniform again. I feel like Atlas, expected to hold the world on my shoulder, or Sisyphus, rolling the world uphill like a boulder, only for it to slip back toward the bottom again and again. It's Autumn for a reason.

I suspect that fresh challenges feel overwhelming for that reason. I set out to learn my capabilities again, most prominently to relearn humility again. Perhaps when mastering each fading season's challenges, I get a little full of myself, as if my doing and not good fortune sustained me. I was no more clever than I ever was and I doubt that I learned very much because I rarely seem to. I have repeatedly shown myself fully capable of somehow succeeding without managing to learn much of anything. I have been the repeated beneficiary of sublime good fortune. I have no particular reason to believe my luck's changing other than this fresh Enormity I'm facing. I have miles to go but can only travel by inches. I'll very likely crawl there again.

Another dozen Holiday poems. Another tree to wrestle up out of the basement. Another series of seasonal disruptions. A goose to render. Some presence to ponder. Silent nights I'm sorely unprepared to wonder through. It seems like a century until Spring, and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. I should not wish this time away, for my time's reportedly getting more precious every day. I feel like giving it away. I struggle to get myself suited up. It's so cold outside now that I'd rather not go anywhere. I could feel fully satisfied reading a book before a roaring fire. I even have some chestnuts to roast. Jack Frost's even running a slopover Cyber Monday special on nipped noses. Holiday music stalks me like an axe murderer everywhere I go. Ho, ho, freaking ho.

The purpose of this season's no different than every season: coming, going, and passing. It's meant to overwhelm us at first, settle us in, and humble us. We will, I suspect, find some way through this curious forest. Another side awaits our inevitable arrival, but first, I feel the overwhelming desire to overthink this one to stump myself. I must feel smothered, it seems, before I can ever even muster a dream I might somehow make come true. The first stage always seems like an enormous blank slate, more hassle than gift. Later, it might seem as though I received a gift, perhaps even a great one. The delivery mechanism must remain secret, for I can never remember the details of its appearance other than the obvious Enormity of the expectation at first. The magic only ever comes after I feel overwhelmed enough to relearn patience.

©2023 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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