A Man With No Country On Christmas

The Nicaragua Microlot is roasted to 401 degrees and is done, just at the start of the second crack. (This means something to coffee roasters.) I have the light smell of roasting on me, which is a bit like cigarette smoke only much fresher and singular in its clarity. I picked the Nicaragua, because it is Christmas. My other options were Kenya and Guatemala. Nicaragua seems like a pretty Catholic place, a place where Christmas might be a pretty big deal. Of course, in reflection, this is an absurd thought. But I am aware from traveling that there are some pretty religious places around the world, which can be hard for me to fathom.

I grew up to parents of mixed heritage. My mother is a "refugee" from England and raised with the CoE (Church of England), though she never found her place amongst the New World Anglican brethren sects. My father was raised in a culturally Jewish, first generation household (more concerned with making it here than in the afterlife), bar mitzvahed at thirteen, and said goodbye to religion in the formal sense. So my brother and I were raised effectively without any formal religious education. Christmas was a tradition in our household much more clearly observed than our infrequent menorah lighting, but a cultural tradition, which made it seem like we were not all that different from most other families.

So over the years as I uncovered devoutness in those around me, it was often was a mix on incredulity and wonder. As I mentioned obliquely in a previous post (my period of Jesus identification), I yearned to know that secret, that key to belonging, to being in Grace. But observing the disparities between devoutness and behavior, between belief and action, I also became disillusioned with the notion of religion in a formal sense. I know this has been all the rage, just before the Tibetian Buddism and Kabbalah trends. But this was often from lapsed Catholics or secular Jews, people who actually had something from which to lapse. And yet, some very sincere and beautiful devoutness exists. Some truly loving, gentle hearted people who may believe this dogma, but can do so with a pureness of intent and spirit.

On Christmas, the spirit is not always so bright. The fatigue of cooking, which delightfully absent this year, was replaced with a space to relax and contemplate the fragile and sublime nature of being alive and maybe to perceive it as well.

Merry Christmas!