The New Yorker cover this week is of Santa in a bathing suit with a red and green life buoy and he and his reindeer are struggling to stand, each on their own piece of ice. The polar bears are threatened by global warming, as are islanders, and Bush continues to deny there is a problem.
Tomorrow night is the full moon, the Divine Feminine, lit fully in the winter sky. I imagine she picks Bush up by his pants and give him a spanking, a light one, because I don't really believe in spanking. I also think it would be just if there was one piece of coal in his stocking on Christmas morning, or, perhaps, a tiny solar light or a windmill, since we shouldn't be pulling any more coal from our earth.
Tonight, each night, we have these sacred winter nights, and the stars. How can we not be pulled out of ourselves by the brightness of these winter stars? And the colors of the trees. One of our trees is still losing leaves and in the dusky light the color is such that I feel kneaded, like dough, by the light.