I hate Christmas

Therfield Heath, December 2017

As you get older, it’s easy to forget. You start to view Christmas through the prism of shit-tinted glasses instead of the rose ones you wore as a child. Christmas becomes about ‘making the kids happy’ or ‘doing the right thing’ and commercialism.  Our cynical brains engage with the hype and see it for what it is and forget the fun, delight and anticipation that it brought when we were children.

Some are deeply sad that Christmas seems to have lost its Christian message, but for me the sadness is about losing the spirit – the feeling that this celebration allows, cultivates and brazenly promotes. Whether you believe in a religion or not, it’s hard to ignore Christmas. The television channels fill with movies where the grumpy cynic is transformed by a magical (or evangelical) intervention, and songs about love, peace and harmony (and good old rock ‘n roll) pervade the airways. 

I am one of those whose associations with Christmas have been soured by a past event. From 1973 all my Christmases henceforth were coloured with a brushstroke of experience that left me feeling distanced, cold and downright Scroogeish.  There’s nothing I could ever do to change what happened, so regret has been my constant reminder every Christmas. This is partially why I do not like Christmas very much and have, in the past, said that I hate it.

Do I still see the blatant commercialism as distasteful? Do I still feel the pang of angst as I revisit that past Christmas and wish that things could change?  I do.  But I now enjoy the balance of the season of goodwill because I choose to do so.

No matter how much money is being prised from the fingers of the susceptible public, no matter how schmaltzy the movies, there is something wonderful about making one time of year (for most in the Western world) about being good, kind, and giving.

It’s taken me a long time to shift from that distrustful cynic to someone who can enjoy Christmas. I engage with the family and my joy at their delight never ceases, but for my own heart to be at peace and happy at Christmas it is still a challenge.

No matter how commercial the adverts, no matter how predictable or thin the storyline of a Christmas movie, no matter how much I react against the religious aspect (due to other incidents in my past and my own atheist inclinations), I have to say that Christmas does endear many to goodwill. And that, in this world of such terrible and tragic loss and violence daily, cannot be a bad thing.

I will enjoy this coming Christmas heartily and honestly; my values brought into sharp focus as life throws up yet more new challenges and promises. It’s easy to forget, and sometimes hard to remember, but it should be the living for the now, for the good of all, for the best reasons you can think of, that can make Christmas or any day of the year, a day worth celebrating.

Photo credit (C) Carolyn Sheppard

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Adelong morning

It’s cold in the mornings. Rain clouds the skies and floods the roads. Sometimes the frost prickles the grass by the roadside. It’s a world away from waking in Adelong, where the musical, haunting song of the magpie heralds a blue sky day. 

The scale of distance in Australia seems different. To get a long view here, you have to go high. In Adelong, just look out the back door.  Rolling scenery draws the eye onwards, into a vanishing point that diminishes with the curve of the earth.

The clatter of timber trucks rolling by – full one way, empty the other – echoes against the tin roofs of the last houses in the town.  Crimson rosellas, loud and raucous, shoot past at speed.  Galahs, the rowdy boys in pink and grey, gather in the field and browse – feathered and feisty. The dogs bark,

Galahs

attention seeking. 

The air is warm, spring promise a comfortable temperature as the day grows and the light, clear and bright, contrasts the grey of the trees against the verdant green and almost blistering blue of the sky. A few clouds, white and distinguished, sometimes graced the scene, promising some relief, yet reluctant to do so.

The magpie warbles, the galahs chatter, the rosellas squawk and the European goldfinch – familiar and yet strangely out of place – sings his syrupy song from the telephone wire.  The air is clean, the day bringing promise of exploration.  A wood fire burns, to chase away the last of winter’s chill from the stone floors and walls. 

And now at home, the fire burns constantly, for winter has come crashing in after a false start; warm October missed as I spent weeks at the other side of the world. Now it is cold, dark, wet, and the world closed in on itself both by proximity and the need to pull close, keep warm, and shut out the weather and each other.

Photos (C) Carolyn Sheppard

Links:

Adelong

Crimson rosella

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A lovely day out
Yarrongabilly

Yarrongabilly

Imagine you are high in the mountains. All you can see for miles across the valleys is trees – beautiful gum trees.  Deep within the karst hills are huge, cold caves. Glistening rocks, sparkling under the lights, huge stalactites ranged like an army, and wafer thin sheets of white and gold.  Above you, tons of rock. Around you, the scars of lost rivers and winds. Stories and secrets in stone.

You wander down from the caves, and swim in warm, green water.  Serenaded by the gentle call of the pobblebonk frog, look up to see a startling blue sky and hear the chatter of small, excited birds in the bush.

The chill of the cave washes off you in the warm water, even though the air is brisk this early spring day.  The sounds of children laughing, the wind rustling and rattling the trees, and the soothing call of the frogs relax and release you.  Legs tired from walking, but enjoying the push through water. Eyes smiling with delight at new experiences, new sounds sights and smells.  Heart bursting with delight at the sheer scale and beauty of a natural landscape that welcomes the visitor and shares its precious past and future with us.

Photos (C) Carolyn Sheppard

Links:

Yarrongabilly caves

Pobblebonk frog

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A weekend in Rome