The Santas of The World
written by: Aimee White
No one could believe it. There he was. The “new” Santa. I had seen the same Santa as my father and his father before him and his father before him. Benevolent. Kind. Without artifice or glory. Just a great guy with a beard and a velvet suit who carefully cared for and protected all our children’s wishes. It was a serious duty. No slack ass or jack ass could do THIS job. You had to be special. You had to be GENUINE. There was a real beard, white and just the right mix of wire and soft. This beard could not be grown overnight. It had to be cultivated like a garden. It had to be weathered by disappointments. It needed to tell the stories of joy and acceptance evenly. IT was not a beard to be bargained or bartered with. It was a beard of light and truth. The suit was ruby red velvet and spun wool that swirled about like a chasm of protection. His house was dark and woody, carved cases lined with books, jars filled with herbs, homemade cookies, and a garden full of vegetables throughout the year. He had many bottles of wine and beer. He had a teapot and a fireplace in every room.
For many years, he would go out once or twice a year. These would be long days of listening followed by a full year of letter writing. Relationships were formed. Trust and truths communicated. Then one day, they asked him to work more days. They gave him money. They expected long hours. The real Santas retreated.
The ones with anchor tattoos stayed in old fishing communities. They watched children grow into fishermen. They watched these children of fishermen become fishermen. These children of fishermen knew things. They knew the tides and the moons. They knew the seasons and the currents. They knew how to gather food and weather storms. They knew big festivals and happiness. They knew dolphins and wild ponies. They knew the importance of big fish and small ones.
The ones with greyer hair went north. They became big giant grey Santas that lifted kids easily and rhythmically breathed with the earth. These Santas had big dogs and sleds to move easily in the snow. The children often stood in subzero temperatures for hours waiting for these Santas to visit and listen to their dreams. These Santas drank fiery potions that glowed like sunrays in the night and kept their bellies warm and nights bright.
There were Santas that moved to the woods and lined their coats in moss and lichen and smoked pipes of mugwort. They moved lightly through the forest and touched ground with their long staffs lightly, stirring spores and leaving trails of mushrooms as they walked. Children dried rosehips and blackberry leaves and left these as tea offerings when Santas were known to be out looking for provisions in the winter.
“They just do not appreciate authenticity any longer. Though we are men full of blood in our veins and warmth on our breath, these new generations cannot even see us.” The Santas all agreed on this and yet they were curious to see the new Santa born of artifice from the concrete metropolis that was taking over the natural lands. The old Santas wanted to be there when this new Santa emerged. They wanted to see his magic, so they became like ordinary men and walked towards the land of structure and facade. They were not prepared for what they saw. There was no wonderment and excitement. There was no pulse quickening joyful exuberance.
There was just this:
Thousands of people with their eyes closed to life clutching hard objects in their fists. Thousands of people dining on unimaginable poisons that would weaken their bodies. Thousands of children fidgeting, sulking, gorging on brightly colored “food,” thousands of children being ignored by thousands of people who could not see. There were loud noises that poorly mimicked the righteous sounds of music. It was loud, smelly, and it was lonely.
And there was the “new “Santa. He did not have a soft belly and laugh lines that came from children’s laughter throughout the earth. He did not have a crimson velvet suit or a blush across his nose from cold or elixirs or both. His voice did not boom. Instead, he was dressed in orange of all things. His skin was tightened, and his form was firm. He said “Welcome” but there was nothing welcoming in his voice. He spoke of stuff but not of magic. Thousands of people and children were bored but they pretended they were happy. They took photos with their objects. And just like that, it was over. Everyone lined up in huge lines and claimed their prizes which they put in automobiles and lined up again to be dismissed. The prizes were hard, and plastic made by slaves for slaves. These were not artisan treasures woven together with spells of happiness. These would break and cause disappointment.
The old Santas all wondered. Could these thousands be saved by their magic? Should they be abandoned? This was a delicate situation because these Santas had big hearts and enormous responsibility. But looking out over the thousands and thousands, they could not hear any dreams or wishes from the children. These children were without the imaginations needed to see them, let alone benefit from their wisdom. The parents could not be trusted to repeat the stories that kept the spirit in motion. The decision was difficult, but the new Santa and new world must be simply abandoned. They could not work together. There was no way to surrender the other children of the world to join this soulless mob.
“We must retreat to our corners of the natural world and remain present for the ones that seek us. If we try to change this mob of non-believers, we ourselves could collapse in their sickness. We will remain in the woods and the coast and decorate these worlds with our treasures. When the children enter these sanctuaries, their minds will grow, their hearts will expand, and their souls will be nourished. We must remain in these corners to protect and honor the truths.”
And so, these Santas remain where there are bright red rosehips in winter casting green glow to lichens, touching the slug trails with glitter. These Santas decorate the ocean floor with stars and thousand eyed scallops seeing blue. They embellish the sky with fiery light and wispy trails of cloudy mysteries that encourage the wonderment of children.
So, if the magic is missing from the seasons of life, one must only search out the wilds of mystery. This is where you find all the enchanted ones. They will never be found under the fluorescent lights of the concrete world. Where the moss is cool and the moon reflective, this is where the glorious secrets are to be found.
- The Santas of The World - December 17, 2024
