Cratchit and Scrooge

[vaneramos]

Red oak leaf, November 25.

"The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the homes opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come dropping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

"The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed."

~~~~~~~~~~

I'm trying to get into the Christmas spirit by communing with Bob Cratchit. Yesterday I woke to brutal cold in the bedroom. Sleeping in it is not bad if you have a good comforter, but climbing out is harder. And when the rest of the apartment is colder still, one is inclined to think of frostbitten fingers struggling with a numb quill, and think resentfully of the master or the landlord, whoever it may be. Although Bob Cratchit never gave a resentful thought: so Dickens would have us believe. I suppose in his day the world was populated mostly by Pollyanna nephews, miserly uncles deserving of the grave, innocent cripples, impoverished hard workers who always thought the best of every situation, and nothing really in between, except the occasional Mrs. Cratchit to shed some light on things. Here I sit, communing with Bob, my fingertips turning blue, thinking the most remarkable Scrooge-like thoughts, so I can be villain and kind-hearted dupe all in one.

There are seasons for everything. Right now it is cold. Yesterday I awoke to snow on the grass, ice on the wires and branches. Last night all was laced with a fresh, white froth. Today I awoke to rain and yet if possible it looks colder outside. I have hardly ventured forth. I am as poor as Cratchit, too. Perhaps not, but I imagine myself to be. Mom and Dad sent a little extra money, but this week the priority was bills. I've been managing on canned soup, ramen noodles and leftovers from the freezer. Once Wednesday is past I'll be able to breathe a little easier, or at least eat a little easier. After that I'll have to resist the temptation to blow the extra dollars at once and then spend more money I can't afford. I need to keep working on the debt.

But I will have to buy a space heater. I can't manage without one through another winter in this draughty old house, "fog pouring in at every chink." If anyone in the area knows where I might find a good, safe used one, let me know. The landlord won't fix the house, so he can pay for the hydro (I don't, thankfully).

And Danny, bring warm clothes this weekend.

So we have seasons of light and seasons of darkness. We can't have more sun until we go through the tunnel. We approach the turning point, but it has to get a little darker yet before we pass it. A season for grieving, a season for rejoicing. One for death and one for life. We cannot have one without the other. Our lives take root in the soil of so many creatures that have lived, died and mouldered before us. Our society is trying to fend off death, but really we're only robbing the cycle.

It's a season of endings and beginnings. I'm experiencing postpartum depression, as if I had given birth to a novel, and yet really I have only gone beyond the third trimester, with baby still clinging in the womb of my mind. A few more chapters to write, and yet I've stalled like I'm finished. I want to enter a season of resting and celebrating what has been accomplished before the accomplishment is realized. I thought I could rob the process, steal the pleasure of finishing, but really I have only deferred fulfilment.

We live in a society of quick or instant gratification. We want to enjoy perpetual pleasure of living in the moment, forgetting that such moments have always been hard bought. I suppose the best way to be present is to enjoy the sensation of work itself.

This is one of the gifts of writing. The process itself can be an intense pleasure, as long as one keeps flowing with it. "Keep your hand moving," writes Natalie Goldberg.

Yes to Natalie. Yes to my daughter. Yes to my friends. Yes sir. I have had a brief season of rest, perhaps only a moment. But I will keep writing. I will not let my miserly Scrooge rob from my noble Cratchit his rightful earnings, the ecstasy of completion. Tonight is a work night, a dark tunnel, a cold cell. It is also a feast, the mind alive, wires firing, fingers playing the keys, the magic of storytelling.

Comments

[leafshimmer.livejournal.com]

I love oak leaves. Love love love.

I had a stab at automatic writing at that workshop I attended last weekend. Although the results were valuable in terms of me finding out just how intently certain questions are on my mind, what I scribbled wasn't really worth showing to anyone else.

There was a guy there who does it a lot though. It seems like any other spiritual exercise--the more of it you do, the more satisfying the results become.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

Yes, Shimmer, yes! If it appeals to you, I heartily recommend picking up a copy of Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones. Bill gets on my case when I say you have to give yourself permission to write utter crap so that you can really get down to the heart of it. But after all, it's the same with photography, you have to take hundreds of crap photos to get a few that are stunning. But if you're purpose is not necessarily to create great literature, simply to dig deeper into the psyche, free writing may be even more satisfying. I love the unexpected, awe-inspiring crap it churns up.