Yesterday we had a stay-at-home Christmas, as Jessica's stepfather was ill and we could not visit them at their home down in the RV park Mesa where they live. Although I regretted missing out on the fellowship of the day, I admit it was pleasant to "go nowhere" on the Feast of the Nativity, and to simply enjoy the stillness of the world as much as possible. It being Sunday, there were pro football games on as well, which made it particularly relaxed.
Twice--in the late morning and in the late afternoon--I went walking outside, making my way through the buildings of our complex, then crossing the street to new park and the undeveloped desert nearby, as part of my daily rambles there. On a normal day I would bring my stool and my book on quantum field theory, and would read a bit, and think about another paragraph in the paper I am writing. Yesterday being a feast day, and such an important one, I gave myself no such assignments but let my mind go where it wanted.
On both occasions, coming in and out of the complex, in the narrow little private streets between the three-story buildings, I could hear, at various places, the buoyant conversations of parties and get-togethers emerging from the upper floors, the voices and laugher coming from the windows and the patios. The temperature was pleasant. Few would need to keep the widows closed.
Hearing these groups of people was startling to me. I realized it was the first time since living here that I recall any such thing. Usually--in fact in all other times I go out walking---I never her these spots of laughter and merriment. Perhaps a single one every once in a while, but never multiple ones going on, sometimes overlapping if one stands in certain places.
At once, hearing them, I was carried away to memories long ago of living in communal areas---student housing complexes when I was a child in Iowa, and in later years, and especially in New York, or Europe---when such sounds were normal even when it was not Christmas. In such places one heard the evidence of human social interactions and fellowship from behind closed doors as a regular part of life, even on a regular weekend.
It was poignant to hear them now. It filled me with great joy, to know there were people inside enjoying each other's company, around our complex, and beyond. Yet my knowledge of the rarity of it made me conscious of its lack. It made realize how dead and lifeless this place is for the rest of 364 days of the year. It made me realize how isolated and isolating this place is, and how this true for most of America.
The craving for fellowship is one of the features of Christmas. The night before we had watched the 1938 movie version of A Christmas Carol starring Reginald Owen (pictured above). It's a very short and fast telling of the story, and adaptation of a radio version that was popular at the time, and as such it leaves out various motivations for the development of the character Scrooge in his youth concerning the reasons he is miserly. Yet what is so obvious in the story is that is that it is his need for human interaction--conviviality and fellowship--that drives the story and his conversion during the wee small hours. It is his being able to overhear Christmas merriment in private houses, and feeling estranged from them, that lets me see what he is missing.
How far we have come. I grew sad thinking about all the people across America and the world who were in fact alone on Christmas, and who would love to be at a party, at least acknowledged as alive, and yet were not welcome anywhere. All Scrooge had to do was stop excluding himself from other people's lives. How lucky he is, compared to so many today who have no idea how to come in from the chill and be welcomed. We have largely solved our problems of material want and depravation today. No one need go hungry for any length of time. Today our great lack is for the things that the Victorians considered natural and free, and available to anyone if they chose it---human company.
As I type this I am about to go on my morning walk. It is Monday, the day after Christmas. Today I will hear no merriment, and will not hear it for another year if are here again next year. I am so grateful for what I have.
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