As transient lights flash through the sky, delayed by tiny claps, the best time of the year enters in a non-traditional manner. I can’t help but think that this is the most silent Christmas I have ever encountered. Even though a drumming beat with interval pauses rattles the serene background of midnight, this is arguably a Christmas dogged by austerity. The decibels are conspicuously low, and the flashes faint. The spirit that is supposed to be reveling is unusually lackadaisical. Christmas enters tiptoeing.

This has been the most melancholic Christmas insofar as my memory accurately recalls. The world rejoices the birth of the supposed-to-be savior, and I cannot avoid thinking of what Christmas really means aside from the Christian tradition. Is it the warring noise that plagues the midnight sky? Is it the illustrious display of ingenious firecrackers atop the serene roof that we are all under? Is it the scrumptious meals temptingly resting on the dinner table? Or the perfectly wrapped presents that you saved for the morning after? There is no one thing that constitutes the totality of Christmas. Everything that tradition has been perpetuating comprises the true essence of Christmas. It’s not only Jesus’ birth, or the most holy of masses that the church has been broadcasting since time immemorial. It’s everything corporeal and intangible. It’s the gift that ensues a feeling of being remembered. The tasty morsels displayed on the table that encourages oneness and a sense of family. The hubbubs on the sky that resuscitates the frazzled spirit. The feathery feeling of joy, of unity, and of love. And that no matter how silent the night was, how little the displays on the table, or how infinitesimal the gifts you receive, Christmas remains adamant. It is immortal, and even death fears it. It is the single unyielding anchor of us, petty mortals, towards a slippery hope.

And as weeks stumble down the pit hole of yesterdays, a new hope breaks the cold chill of economic turmoil. Incrementally approaching the end of years, and heading towards a new year, a silver lining streaks the roaring gray clouds; that no matter what troubles lurks within the unlighted jungles of uncertainty, all will fall into place. A new year begets a new brand of promise. The death defying stunts we endured during 2010, will become figments of our memories. There’s a reason why we are still here, alive, kicking, and breathing. There’s a recondite reason why we are given the rare opportunity to begin anew. And as 2011 inevitably approaches, let us begin to set foot on another terrain; novel and unknown. Resuscitate your forgotten dreams, rewrite your bygone wish lists, and repair your obliterated spirits. A new day marches towards the horizon; let us not forget to salute it as a welcome gesture.

As for me, I have been unfairly blessed with the single most divine creature known to frustrated writers. I have been bequeathed by fate the most angelic woman, and up until now I question its judgment of propriety. I was not looking, but she came. I was not searching, but fate paraded her. I am an innocent victim of serendipity; happily murdered by the claws of fate. Serendipity is man’s humble justification towards a life he cannot control. I steered clear from any distractions, but you perturbed my wild excursions. My coerced pilgrimage towards a life worthy of a life or death battle, has found its end in your beguiling embrace. Serendipity exists. And I have been obliviously stabbed by it.


photo from: my bebe, Bernz Bernales