Ghost of Christmas Presence

Recognizing that 50 years of Christmases
have brought me neither enlightenment
nor happiness –
neither partaking of the host – shortbreads with silver balls on top -
nor the communion wine of eggnog and rum –

Recognizing that the story of a baby
resting in a box of hay
has transmogrified through coloured lights and kitsch
into no more than a bedtime tale for hyperactive children
too wired on candy canes to care,
too hyped on the promise of desire’s fulfillment
only a membrane of brightly coloured paper away.

I turn my feet, instead, to the path of enlightenment.
I turn my consciousness instead
to the infinite sanctuary of the Buddha
I take refuge in the Dharma,
rather than at Canadian Tire, Future Shop
or even that cost-saving mecca of materialism,
Walmart.

I therefore abjure Yule logs and treetop angels.
I relinquish the ritual Christmas TV specials,
Rudolph, Scrooge and the Grinch
I abandon the practices – standing in line at the till
bench pressing my limp credit card,
agonizing over lists of what to buy for whom,
calculating the minute increments of one upmanship
who can buy the most perfect present
and how that means I love you in the way
nothing else can
all year long.

Recognizing that all is samsara,
I renounce desire
forsaking all hope of that deluxe breadmaker with 38 different settings
Those 24 carat gold earrings with the glittery birthstones
the cashmere turtleneck in the precise shade of Mediterranean olive
to go with my eyes
and the latest Peggy Atwood novel

Now I recognize the truth
that all we have is this moment
Now

no presents necessary
only this presence

one breath in

one breath out

this breath

and this one

I forsake all earthly desire

except

You know what I want? What I really really want?
That cunning little Buddha statue
I saw at Snow Lion,
carved from pale olive wood

and a selection of books by the teachers
Sojyal Rinpoche, Thich Nat Han,
and his Divine Highness, the Dalai Lama.

A set of simple cotton robes
in that shade of goldenrod-saffron
the exact match of the streaks in my hair
and a cashmere burgundy pashmina
for cold mornings at the temple
And don’t forget the jewellery
the carved lapis “endless knot”
and the tasseled mala beads
so I can count my Oms

I think I’d better make a list…

susan lynn reynolds, december2007

To read other poems by Sue, click on these links:

Counter Culture

At the Monastery Desiring God

Never Enough