Christmas, Copenhagen and Ecuador

At Christmas there is always lots of talk about spirit, family and home. For those of us from the North, it brings images of snowbound cabins, snowball fights and huge family dinners.

However, Christmas here in Ecuador is a bit strange. It seems to be an almost inappropriate time to have a holiday. The days stay the same length, the temperature is about the same as it will be in six months, and the rainy season (which hasn’t really shown its head much this year) still has a few more months left to kick around.

To be honest, I kind of find it strange the way that Christmas here is attempt to recreate what Christmas is in the north. I would guess that it is just a cultural dominance thing here. Christmas is defined by the larger and wealthier nations of the north. We get to say what it is, and the rest of the world gets to follow.

I know that in parts of Africa this happens too, but that part of the world was settled mostly by the French and English – parts of the world where it snows. But here we have all the trimmings – turkey and stuffing, fake snow all over the place, and artificial Doug firs covered with light, and this place was colonized by the Spanish.

It’s funny. We love to talk about these traditions in very knowing tones: “The lights were an ancient pagan tradition to bring back the sun” or “The tree was an ancient Nordic tradition for brining life into the home.” But that seems not to apply here. Few people here are of Nordic descent, and the sun is in the sky just as much as any time of year.

Obviously, much of this has to do with cultural influence of the United States. That much is obvious.

It is very popular to talk about family, hearth and home at this time of the year, and I support anything that does that. However, it also seems obvious to me that the times of year that do that are also times of the year that celebrate the natural order of things: lilies, eggs and lamb at Easter; harvest foods at Thanksgiving, and evergreens and snow at Christmas.

It suggests that our homes are not as segregated from the natural order as we think.

So, what are we to make of a world where Christmas is celebrated by recognizing the natural order in a different part of the world?

To be honest, I don’t know. But I think that in some ways the answers can be seen in Copenhagen. Recent talks to try to reduce the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere have failed. The consequences of this will be highly tangible. Species will go extinct, sea levels will consume low lying areas, and people will die. I say this with no sense of exaggeration.

We are destroying the planet at an increasingly rapid rate, and few seem to notice. Perhaps, it is because we are out of sync. The ties that once bound us are loosening – we are losing touch with our land, with our families, and ultimately with ourselves. Is it any surprise that we can’t come to agreement on one of the most important issues facing our world today?

What then can be done? If the great and good of the world can’t get it together, what chance do we have? To be certain, I have kind of lost faith in the political system. The politicians know that the vast majority of people in the world want something done about this, so what point is there in reminding them?

Perhaps that is where the Christmas spirit becomes important. Getting together, spending time with loved ones, and taking a moment to be glad that there is still snow is precisely what is needed. For me Christmas acts more as a reminder of what a special place we live in. It is a time to recognize the value of abstractions like love, home and harmony. It does not mean that it is the only time that these things have any worth. Maybe, if we get that right, bigger things can get done.

When the Sun is North of Here.

I’ve been sick. I don’t often get sick, and when I do it isn’t for very long. I was sick for one day last winter. Before that, I don’t even remember. This time the illness was different. A cruel lover, at first I enjoyed it. I don’t sleep much. Getting 12 hours of sleep was great. Soon it became too much and other, less polite, complications emerged. I was pretty much bed-ridden.


Apparently, I have two illnesses at once. The first is a virus called CMV – to make a long story short, it is a form of mono. The second, and less polite illness, is some kind of intestinal bug. The bug can be treated, and hopefully my will start to be digested again.

Regardless, the blog has been quiet because I don’t think that people want to hear about lying in bed all day. However, one nice thing about lying in bed all day is that it gives you time to think. Granted, most of the thoughts have been along the lines of “curse my damn colon”. But, some useful thoughts have come to the fore.

In particular, I have noticed the sun.

My bedroom has a sunroof. It is nice, except at mid day when it bakes my room and gives no shelter. Normally, I am not here for that, so it is of little consequence. However, when there is nowhere to go, it is noticeable

A few days ago, something whispered in my mind – “That sun is coming in from the north”. So it is.

I haven’t really hidden the fact that I don’t love Quito. It is loud, polluted and crime ridden. In short, it is a city. I grew up in one and I feel no need to live in one again. But something else, something deeper, has bothered me about this place.

I was raised by a man who had an undeniable sense of place. My father understood Long Island in a way that few ever will again. We used to tease him—he saw potato fields and forests in places that are now strip malls and tract housing. He knew the history of the place. He knew that that the Native Americans would go clamming in the estuaries and salt marshes—today an activity that produces a luxury item—in times of famine. He knew about the Loyalists that populated the Island during the American Revolution and the different techniques that the Long Island baymen used for harvesting food.

The first time I ever really felt a place was in Edinburgh. I had been studying the Celtic Holiday, Imbolc. It was, and still it, the start of spring in that part of the world. To me, early February is not spring. It isn’t even close. But, after a long morning of thinking of nothing but the Celtic start of spring, I headed into a cold Scottish afternoon. On my way home, past the Meadows, the first snowdrops were coming up. I understood. It was an intuitive understanding—the type that words are useless for.

Somehow, in that moment, I got the place. I understood Scotland in a way that I think my father understood Long Island. I knew that spring had begun, and I knew in some way what Imbolc was about.

I’ve carried that moment with me. In upstate New York I read Iroquois mythology, learned about the ecology of a place that measures snow in feet. I loved it there. In Ireland, I knew the myths as well as anyone. That field was where Cú Chulainn made his stand against the armies of Ireland, and over there is where the Mórrigan mated with the Dagda. Even in a place as ecologically devastated as Ireland, there is a sense of place.

Then there was Montana. In Montana, I took it a step further. Understanding Montana was more than just reading some stories and doing some bird watching. To be certain, I learned about Old Man Coyote and read about the ecological significance of alpine snow pack to the low lying sagebrush ecosystem. But I also discovered the importance of ceremony. In my studies of anthropology I had an intellectual understanding that ceremony cements a relationship with a place, with other people, with the divine, in a way that nothing else could.

Before long, I was sitting in tortuous sweat lodges and standing in the hot sun with wounds in my chest. It wasn’t snowdrops in Scotland. It was long, slow and hard. I still don’t get it. I wish I did. I think some of the guys at the sweats got sick of constant questioning. I belonged to that place in a way that that is hard to explain. There is nothing supernatural about it. It is just…

Well, it is kind of like soul – if I have to explain it to you, you will never understand.

So now, the sun is in the north. There are tall majestic trees with bark that seems to be peeling away. There are grasses that are as tough as any I have ever seen – I imagine that someone must have once used them for rope. The mountains are stately and cloud veiled and the birds… well, if anything can keep me here, it is the birds.

I could go on – great fruit, colorful music, and a rich and vibrant culture.

But none of it touches me. I think about elk moving in the Lamar Valley, wolves in tow. I dream of eagles, not condors. For the past week, I have dreamt of bison coming to me, and I know I will be better soon.

Now I question what to do with this place. Do I try to connect to it? There are surely great Incan myths and I can see the natural beauty from my own back yard. Can I ever adjust to a sun that lives in the northern sky?