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A Christmas Soliloquy

by Wesley de john  
12/06/2007 / Holidays

'It is the mast, the mast Sir it is breaking!!' those last words were uttered before a loud screeching and breaking sound rendered all other conversation unnecessary and denoted the collapse of the primary mast aboard the schooner Christmas Spirit. The boat rose high above the crest of an onrushing wave, to plunge almost vertically to the murky depths on its trough. The sheer horror was mitigated by the sheer need of her dozen crewmen to cling onto any and all appendages that presented a strong hold against the real and brutal fact of an impending death. The storm raged, and oh what a beautiful rage it was. Lightening flashed across the skies followed almost simultaneously by roaring thunder and a veritable shaking of the heavens. It did not 'rain', and neither did it 'pour', for the deluge that fell from the sky was so thoroughly beyond the descriptive power of these words, that to use them would be the same as describing the Sahara desert as dry. There were waves blasting the drenched crew from the agitated, frantic and angry seas, there were waves drowning the gasping, struggling, powerless crew from the heavy and tormented skies. There was no distinction between the seas tumult and skies, nor was any distinction visible of where the waves ended and the skies began. IN the midst of this the Christmas Spirit was found, and on its bridge the Captain stood deeply moved, a picture of serenity in the midst of the turmoil. A true Titanic, and whose brave souls unsinkable spirit through the intense trial tenaciously awaited the passing of the storm as patiently as they awaited its coming commanded together through camaraderie, love, faith and trust, and if they shed tears they were not of pain, but tears of understanding that though they cling on their power wanes and it is only the Captain that gives them strength.

Miles astern a massive ocean liner trembled not at the mighty waves for her bows prod onwards as though through calm seas, her powerful engines drive her inexorably forward by the will of their own mechanics, and aboard a thousand souls dine, wine, dance and fret not about the storm, no their worries are more surreal, and as they count down the moment to the day appointed as Christmas their cheer circles around their troubled thoughts which pertain to the earthly tremors with tinges and tenuous links to the battle being fought miles astern. In a flash of lightening the name appears on her bow, and surprise is mingled with wisdom for her name too is Christmas Spirit.

I am a cloud in the tears of heaven, the wisp in the rains, the desert in the grains of sand, the oceans in the drops of water.

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