Meditation on a Christmas Tree Ornament

The bird has a blue eye. It has a red breast and crest. It has red tailfeathers. It has four feathers just above the tail. One is purple, the other three red. Its wings are red. Its beak is orange and so are its legs and feet. But its eye is blue.

The bird is silent. It does not sing. It does not squawk. It does not call to its mate. It does not speak to you. Its silence is neither cold nor hot nor indifferent. It is silent.

The bird’s orange feet grip a branch. It does not need to see the branch. The branch is there, else he would fall. It is a he-bird. He does not need to see the branch.

The bird is red. It rests on its perch. Leaves grip the branch all around. The leaves are green and they are waxy. Nestled in the leaves are berries. They are waxy and red.

The bird’s blue eye unwavering. Its stillness ever-still. The berries ever-fresh, the holly evergreen.

* * *

Jesus is blind. He is fully exposed. He hangs on the cross, dripping blood and vinegar.

Blood must be shed. The goddess bled, and the fields flowered. Jesus bled. His mother stood below him and caught his blood in her hands. While God hid from his own son’s eye.

The prophets hid from God’s eyes. At Calvary God hid from his own son’s eye.

* * *

Pines are evergreen. Their needles turn brown. They die, and the tree sheds them. A thick pad of them circles each tree. Resin drips onto this pad.

* * *

Jesus’ blood once belonged to his mother. At the hour of his death it returned to her hands. While God hid from his own son’s eye, Mary caught the blood that Jesus shed.

* * *

Holly is evergreen. That means nothing. Eventually its leaves shrivel and die. To prolong its color, plant it in shade, away from the unwavering eye of the sun. This will prolong the leaves’ green, but the red berries will suffer.

* * *

Once, a boy caught a bird in his hands. The bird bit him. It tore a hunk of flesh from his hand. The wound was a perfect triangle. It was deep, like a well. But it was triangular.

I looked into the well, down, down, down. It was dry and red. And then the blood began to gather. It took its time. It was bright red. It gathered and welled up. It was quiet, it was still. It took its time. Bright red, it filled the well and spilled over. It spattered on the dirt. The bird flew away.

* * *

An angel comes to a woman. It is filthy. It stinks. It has no wings. It has no heaven. It is starving. The woman feeds it. The angel bites her hand. She feeds it again. The angel bites her. She feeds it again. It flees. The woman’s pantry is empty now. But there is a little flour in the bin. Tomorrow there is a little flour still. Every day there is a little flour still. The angel cannot be tamed, but it cannot forget. The woman understands. She begins to bleed.

Jesus went to a wedding. He said, Let there be wine. He went to a hillside. He said, Let them eat fish. Five loaves, five fish, five thousand starving. When the fishing was poor, he filled the nets. Everyone ate. In his heart, Jesus was a woman.

* * *

Here is a myth: In the land of Odin, there stands a mountain. Once every million years a little bird comes winging, sharpens its beak and then quickly disappears. When that mountain is worn away, into eternity shall be one single day.

The bird is red. It has a red breast and a crest. It has red tailfeathers. But its eye is blue. When the bird bites, blood gathers and spills. Where blood spatters on holly, berries form.

The bird is silent. It does not sing. It does not squawk. It does not call to its mate. It does not speak to you. Its silence is neither cold nor hot nor indifferent. It is silent. Whatever you hear, you bring.

The bird’s blue eye unwavering. Its stillness ever-still. The berries ever-fresh, the holly evergreen.