"The Ghost of Christmas Present, in Arizona" The Sierra Anchas, Arizona (c) 2009 Stu Jenks
The Ghost of Christmas Present loves this old forest, filled with older spirits than even he, and younger sprouts full of hope and promise. Add to that, a very old friend resides here, and the forest is on the way to Texas. He just visited Phoenix where he cheered up a little boy with leukemia, and he’s now heading toward El Paso to try, once again, to open the heart of a very old man, who hates people, hates life, and hates himself most of all. The Ghost tries every year with this man and fails, but he likes a challenge.
The trail’s old and well-worn, first travelled by Elves, later by Native People and more recently, by Boy Scouts and backpackers. An icy stream roars off to his left. He breathes in the sweet mossy dampness of the place. The Spirit smiles and loudly exhales.
“Who would have thought that such wonderful wetness exists so close to the dry desert floor. Just delightful,” he says out loud to himself. The Ghost of Christmas Present tends to talk to himself a lot. He just can’t keep his enthusiasm to himself.
Higher he climbs, past ancient Alligator Juniper trees, many feet in diameter with needles as sweet as cotton candy. Past Blue Spruce and White Pines, whose boughs are as fragrant as the finest perfume. Past huge green ferns as big as a giant’s hand. Past Mexican Live Oaks that rival in size even the old Junipers.
There is no need to hurry. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are one of those timeless periods on the planet when an hour can last a day and a day can last a week. Plus the old man in Texas hates seeing him anyway. That grumpy old mortal makes him laugh so.
The Ghost rounds a corner of the trail when suddenly he sees a campfire near the creek.
“What is someone doing up here on Christmas Eve? Don’t they have any family to share this bright time of the year?” says the Spirit, “Now, Now. Mustn’t jump to conclusions. I’ll just wander over and see who it is and see what they’re doing.”
He walks into the woman’s camp. You would think the woman would have been noticed him, given The Ghost being an eight foot tall barefoot man, dressed only in a forest green robe open at the chest, a holly wreath with icicles resting upon his head, and carrying a huge torch that burned bright and strong and smells of incense. But the middle aged woman who sat alone by the fire didn’t see him, nor hear him talk, nor smell the incense from his torch, for the Ghost was invisible to most, and only occasionally did he make his physical presence known. Most Humans can’t hear or see him, though some sense when he’s around.
“I don’t want to frighten her. She seems very sad. I wonder what’s the matter?”
Then the Spirit flicks his nose three times with his right index finger to turn on his ability to hear mortals thoughts. He doesn’t do this often, for the chatter of the city tends to drive him a little crazy, but it is just he, this woman and the Forest Spirits, and the trees tends to have very slow and long thoughts which he frankly enjoys hearing.
Flick, flick, flick, he taps his nose.
At first he hears nothing, except for the lovely hum of Ponderosa and Spruces in love. He then places his attention toward the woman. She seems to not be thinking about anything.
“That’s good. Thinking often doesn’t help anything at all. Now feeling however, well that’s another...,” and he stops himself.
“Luke,” he says to himself, “Now, don’t go spouting off about The Joys of Living and all of that stuff. It appears this woman needs something or someone. So, focus on her. Listen!”
He finds a large stone on the other side of the fire, sits on it and gazes at the woman. Blond hair to her shoulders, a beautiful face, a petite and sexy athletic figure. Her hands in her lap, head slightly bowed, bright blue eyes staring at the fire. The Ghost concentrates and then he starts to hear her words.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know. I just don’t know what to do?” he hears.
He leans forward to better hear her thoughts, and listens and listens and listens some more. After a few minutes, he wipes a large tear from his cheek with the back of his hand.
Seems that the woman doesn’t have any family close by, and she has to go back to work at the hardware store on the 26th of December, so flying to see her Dad just didn’t make much sense this year. Plus she’s poor as a church mouse, and doesn’t have a boyfriend or a husband. And she doesn’t have any children either and that’s a hole that lingers long in her heart. But that’s not what’s making The Ghost of Christmas Present cry. It’s that the woman has decided to never love again, to never trust another man with her heart, to just be her own person, and make the best of the rest of her life, alone. The Spirit has heard this lament many times in his travels tonight and on other nights, and he cries more times than not, when he hears it, or sees it acted out. Men, women, children, parents, friends, all resigned, thinking or saying: “That’s it! Never again!" or "It just hurts too much! It’s not worth it!" or "I’m not talking to Mom & Dad anymore." or "I’ll never trust a woman ever again!" or "I’ll never open up to him or anyone like him, for as long as I live!” and on and on and on, in a hundred different languages.
And he doesn’t cry because of what they have chosen. He completely understands their hurt and pain and suffering. He feels very compassionate toward these Mortals and what they go through, and what they hurtfully do to each other, out of their fears and shortcomings. No, he cries because he know what a great gift that God and The Goddess have given to Humans: The ability to love each other so fully and deeply, through kind words and deep kisses and strong songs and good food and loud laughter and tender caresses and warm hugs and bright eyes and big smiles. Angels talk at coffee about how jealous they are that Humans love with such abandon, when they, themselves, can not. The Spirit of Christmas Past can love as deeply as a human being, but he can only do it for twelve days out of the year. Mortals can love year round, if they chose to. But when people decide to stop loving, it doesn’t make the Ghost mad, but he does feels very sad. Awfully sad.
He flicks his nose again, three times and he can no longer hear her thoughts.
He sits for a long time with the Blond Woman, staring at her and simple loving her from across the fire. Once she looks up from the fire, a bit spooked and looks over her shoulder.
“You feel my eyes on you,” he says, “It’s OK. I mean you no harm at all, lovely lady, beautiful woman, very good soul. And I understand your resistance to love again. I’m just loving you now while I’m here. Because I like to. Because it feels good to me, to love you.”
She doesn’t hear him speak but The Spirit sees her shoulders relax. The woman gives a heavy sigh and smiles just a little. A little grin at the edge of her mouth. The Ghost smiles too. The woman stands up, bends over and pulls a blue enamel coffee pot from out of the fire. She pours herself a cup. After placing the pot back in the fire, she sits and sips the hot coffee. Then to the Ghost’s surprise, the woman seemingly stares right at him, and says,
“Would you like a cup?”
He’s a bit startled now, but answers, “I would love one.”
But she doesn’t see him, doesn’t hear him, doesn’t feel him. She’s not talking to him at all. Her gaze travels just over his right shoulder. But she continues talking, not to him but to a memory of some kind. The Ghost listens very closely. Yes. She talking to the man who left her.
“I’m sorry.” she say, “It was as much about me as about you. I didn’t love you enough either. I held back too. And I forgive you for what you did. I don’t want you back, mind you, but I will try, yes I will try, to let that another man into my heart. I release you, Paul. I release the hurt. I let go you go. I let it all go!”
The woman raises her arms about her head, throws her head, and exhales a large deep breath. She breathes in deeply the cold moist forest air and they exhales again. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Then a big smile breaks across her face and the Ghost sees two little fires begin to burn in her eyes. Pink fires. Pink lights. She has decided to love again!
“Maybe with that man in Show Low,” she says to the air, and then she let loose a loud laugh that echos off the canyon walls.
The Ghost sits on the other side of the fire, blubbering away. He blows his nose into his green sleeve, once, twice, three times. He composes himself, and looks again at the woman.
“Thank you, sweetie,” he says, “I’m used to being the Big Giver this time of year, but you have given me the gift tonight. You have given me a human vision of Forgiveness and of New Hope and of an Opening Heart. You have given me, this old wandering ghost, the gift of Love. And all I did was sit across you and listens and feel and witness the whole thing!”
And then he laughed so loud it made the ground shake. The woman didn’t hear his laugh but she did put her hand to the ground and had a puzzled look on her face, as she felt the slight tremor.
“Oops. Sorry, my dear. My beautiful dear. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He then stands up, brushes off his robe and slowly walks behind the Woman. Reaching up to the wreath upon his head, he pulls out three small green holly leaves. Leaning over her, he weaves the holly into her hair just above her right ear.
“One for you, one for him, and one for the one yet to come,” he whispers into her ear.
“And thank you for the Christmas gift that you gave to me tonight,” he softly says.
He kisses the woman on the top of her head, turns and walks toward the trail.
“Now, it’s time to go visit that grumpy old man,” he says to himself, “But first, I want to say hello to an old friend of mine, who I haven't seen in ages. Old Mr. Alligator lives right over there,” he says, pointing to the top of a high ridge line. “Won’t he be surprise to see me! Hoo, Hoo! Won't he be! Here I come, Mr. Alligator! Here I come!”
And off he bounds up the steep forest trail.
A half hour later, while the woman readys her tent for the night, she thinks she sees a bright pink light glowing from a high ridge line to the east.
“Well, would you look at that. Holy Mother of God,” she says, without fear.
She stares at it, watching the light change from pink to red to purple to red and back to pink again. She watches it repeat the cycle three times.
And then, the light fades and is gone.
