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At end of year I can’t help thinking about conclusions – especially of my life. In the closing days of 1960, mystic Thomas Merton wrote in his journal: “I was wondering if it would be given me to see another twelve years – to live to be fifty-seven or nearly fifty-eight. What foolish perspectives we get into, by believing in our calendars. As if numbers were the great reality.” Merton died by accidental electrocution on December 10, 1968, at the age of 53. As I witness one elderly friend or relative after another pass away, I’m reminded of something one of my favorite authors wrote. Ray Bradbury, in his lovely Dandelion Wine , pictures it like this: “And then there is that day when all around, all around you hear the dropping of the apples, one by one, from the trees. At first it is one here and one there, and then it is three and then it is four and then nine and twenty, until the apples plummet like rain, fall like horse hoofs in the soft, darkening grass, and you are the last apple on the tree; and you wait for the wind to work you slowly free from your hold upon the sky, and drop you down and down.” Writers, especially, seem to dwell on the number of years left to us. Here, for example, is Viginia Woolf in Mrs. Dalloway : “But she feared time itself, the dwindling of life; how year by year her share was sliced; how, little the margin that remained was capable any longer of stretching, of absorbing, as in the youthful years.” And Kurt Vonnegut in Slaughterhouse-Five : “The second hand on my watch would twitch once, and a year would pass, and then it would twitch again. There was nothing I could do about it. As an Earthling, I had to believe whatever the clocks said – and calendars.” If you’re a Christian, as I am, you were raised to memorize “The Lord’s Prayer.” In this prayer we bid God’s kingdom come. But then, when he calls us from this world, we struggle and resist – not freely consenting to our departure and certainly not eager for it. I have to ask, why do we pray that “Thy kingdom come” if this earthly bondage pleases us so? Third-century Saint Cyprian of Antioch calls us out: “Yet we expect to be rewarded with heavenly honors by Him to whom we come against our will.” From what I’ve learned from all the research into near-death experiences (NDEs) during the past few decades, NDE people have one thing in common – they no longer fear death. Whether we believe in NDEs or not, this is the fact. The only conclusion is this: Banish our fear of death. This would be the proof of our faith.

We work so hard each December at making Christmas merry, but the roots of our celebrations run deep and dark. Within the past several days, I’ve attended performances of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol on Cape Cod and George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center. Two vastly different interpretations of the holiday, but they share a dark heritage. In E.T.A. Hoffmann's 1816 story, "The Nutcracker and the Mouse King," on which the 1892 Tchaikovsky ballet is based, scary old Drosselmeyer (portrayed above by Balanchine) was once the royal rat-catcher, who set traps for the Mouse Queen. This led to a series of incidents that ended in his nephew being turned by an evil spell into a nutcracker. Hoffmann might have been rebelling against the Enlightenment and its emphasis on rational philosophy. As a Romantic, he believed that imagination was under attack by rationalism. His tale challenged readers to liberate their inner child from the monotony of the real world. Hoffmann's Romantic approach to imagination, reality and childhood has been lost in most productions of The Nutcracker. The ballet—saved only by Tchaikovsky’s brilliant score—is a holiday diversion full of dancing and merriment. But there's nothing profound in its storyline. Then there’s Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol . Today is the anniversary of its publication—December 19, 1843. Most of us probably have never read the book, but we’ve all seen plenty of film or theatrical adaptations. Have you noticed that Dickens leaves out Baby Jesus to concentrate on grotesquery, poverty, indignity, pranks, dancing, food—and death? There are thousands of novels that tell us we should be kinder and more moral, novelist Michael Faber says, but most of them gather dust. The secret of A Christmas Carol lies in the real reason for Scrooge's change of heart—his realization that, at long last, he's capable of having fun. The greatest tragedy Dickens can imagine is an existence devoid of playfulness, of biding time on the way to the grave. Fun, for him, is the only redress for death. Scrooge's triumph is that he looks his own corpse in the face and defiantly resolves to enjoy the gift of life to the full. It’s not hard to figure out why Christmas fables like A Christmas Carol and The Nutcracker draw on the somber to set things in motion. After all, the Biblical narrative of the Nativity has its own sinister backstory, with evil Herod conniving to learn the location of the would-be king of the Jews so he can assassinate the infant in his crib. Failing that, he orders the massacre of every Hebrew boy under the age of two: In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not. But true to the manner of Hoffman and Dickens, at this time of good cheer we might do well to declare death null and void in favor of living a full and loving life, one in which we are, at long last, capable of having fun.

On this Christmas day 2025 my gift to all you faithful followers of my humble blog are two poems that couldn’t be more different. Participants in my Healing Verses Workshops will be familiar with both. The first is titled “Christmas Tree” by James Merrill. What makes this poem so poignant is that the author knows this is his last Christmas, his last Christmas tree. Merrill wrote this poem just weeks before he died of AIDS in 1995. So it’s mostly a poem about accepting imminent death with poise and grace. It was a time when AIDS was still not understood, very scary, and victims were subjected to a lot of judgment. In this poem, Merrill affirms life until even the last few minutes. He doesn’t allow his coming death to diminish the wonder of life. He alludes to the way we humans celebrate Christmas by killing a tree. He sees love and death as masks worn by the same face. He believes the best way to conquer the fate that waits for us all is to celebrate the present moment, even on the last night, before the tree is removed and the needles swept up. James Merrill was one of the most influential poets of the twentieth century. His father was the Merrill in Merrill Lynch. James didn’t need to go to work. So he devoted everything to poetry. It was his life. He used his wealth to support other writers and the arts. He won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1977 and two National Book Awards, in 1967 and 1979. Christmas Tree By James Merrill To be Brought down at last From the cold sighing mountain Where I and the others Had been fed, looked after, kept still, Meant, I knew—of course I knew— That it would be only a matter of weeks, That there was nothing more to do. Warmly they took me in, made much of me, The point from the start was to keep my spirits up. I could assent to that. For honestly, It did help to be wound in jewels, to send Their colors flashing forth from vents in the deep Fragrant sables that cloaked me head to foot. Over me then they wove a spell of shining— Purple and silver chains, eavesdropping tinsel, Amulets, milagros: software of silver, A heart, a little girl, a Model T, Two staring eyes. Then angles, trumpets, BUD and BEA (The children’s names) in clownlike capitals, Somewhere a music box whose tiny song Played and replayed I ended before long By loving. And in shadow behind me, a primitive IV To keep the show going. Yes, yes, what lay ahead Was clear: the stripping, the cold street, my chemicals Plowed back into the Earth for lives to come— No doubt a blessing, a harvest, but one that doesn’t bear, Now or ever, dwelling upon. To have grown so thin. Needles and bone. The little boy’s hands meeting About my spine. The mother’s voice: Holding up wonderfully! No dread. No bitterness. The end beginning. Today’s Dusk room aglow For the last time With candlelight. Faces love-lit Gifts underfoot. Still to be so poised, so Receptive. Still to recall, praise. The second poem is by Joyce Carol Oates, one of America's most prolific (more than seventy books so far) and celebrated writers. She’s known primarily for her dark, psychologically complex novels and short stories. Throughout her career, however, she’s also written a substantial body of poetry. Among these poems is "The Miraculous Birth," a meditative Christmas piece that celebrates both the transcendent and the mundane, finding profundity in domestic scenes. "The Miraculous Birth" was originally published in The New York Times Magazine on December 23, 1984. What distinguishes this poem from conventional Christmas verse is its philosophical depth. The central idea of the poem becomes clear in its final lines: the miraculous birth being referenced is the miracle of one's own existence. The Miraculous Birth By Joyce Carol Oates Christmas: The House Adrift in a wide white ocean of snow. Black December is a ditch winking overhead, but here beneath your parents’ roof the piecrust faces are dimpled by forks and the clock faces are round and smooth as buttons. This is the season of waiting and of expectation and of hunger keenly roused to be satisfied. This is the season of the miraculous birth, the oldest story, these years, centuries— the fresh-trimmed spruce bristling to the ceiling, smelling of cold, of night, of forests wild and tamed as forests in a child’s picture book. The splendid tree is balanced in a shallow tin of water looking as if it would live forever— green-spicy, sharp-needled— and such tinsel, such trinkets ablaze on the boughs, a glass-glitter of icicles, angel’s hair, strings of colored lights plugged to a socket! And beneath the tree presents wrapped in shiny paper, satiny bows, gifts heaped upon gifts— a child’s fever-dream spilled on the carpet Outside, snow flying like white horses’ manes and tails; inside cookies that are stars, hearts, diamonds, the smell of a turkey roasting slow in its fat. There are stories children are not told, of grandmothers dying in secret of their hearts or of cancer shopping for months for this season— the costly boxed gifts that are love, the stiff silver paper that is love, all the effort of joy, love— torn open too quickly by a child’s fingers. And there suddenly is your father, young again, entering the kitchen, the wind behind him, snow melting in his wild dark hair, a carton of presents in his arms. From what and to what could this world be redeemed? is not a child’s question. You are sitting at the long table with the others. Those years. The roof weighted with snow. Candle flames, the smell of red wax, O take and eat; the clock tells its small rounded time again and again, again— this is all there is and this is everything. The miraculous birth is your own. I want to thank my friend, and fellow poet, Paul Bumbar, for bringing “The Miraculous Birth” to my attention during a recent Healing Verses Workshop. I also learned that Oates hails from a town near the Buffalo area where Paul resides – Lockport, New York. Brought up in a working-class Catholic family, she has drawn on her childhood experiences in upstate New York, often transforming the region into fictional Eden County. "The Miraculous Birth" taps into these personal memories while universalizing them, creating a space where readers can recognize their own experiences of holiday traditions and familial gatherings. Last thing: If you didn’t recognize the photo up top, it’s the 2025 tree at New York City’s Rockefeller Plaza.

I got the idea from Helen, who’s reads everything, sees everything, goes everywhere – and is as New York as a Metro card. Helen, my Manhattan friend of many decades, and two of her friends have a Saturday morning ritual of seeing the week’s best new movie release. Tired of never having seen any of the films nominated for Oscars, I decided to follow their practice and every Friday see a movie and wallow in a huge bucket of popcorn with refills. I call my adventure Friday Flicks. There’s one big “But . . . .” Helen and her pals live in Manhattan, a couple of subway stops from some of the country’s best independent film houses: Angelika, Film Forum, the IFC Center, Quad Cinema. New Haven, on the other hand, has no movie theaters. Not one, in a city that calls itself the “Cultural Capital of Connecticut.” Within a short drive from New Haven are two cinemas – both owned by Cinemark and both playing releases straight from Hollywood. The movies I’ve attended since I started Friday Flicks remind me why I stopped going to the movies years ago. Mostly, they are comic books on 35mm celluloid. The Marvel Cinematic Universe and other franchises have generated enormous box office success, but their formulaic storytelling and characterization expose their lack of artistic merit. Critics like Manohla Dargis of The New York Times have noted that while these films often deliver spectacle, they lack the depth and innovation of art. Dargis says: “Franchise films, while visually striking, often sacrifice narrative complexity for the sake of lucrative sequels.” What should going to the movies do for you? Film critic A.O. Scott says it well: "The best films, whether they are big-budget blockbusters or indie gems, reveal something profound about the human condition." During the past months of my movie-going, I’ve too often exited the theater thinking, “At least the popcorn was good.” For example: • I didn’t understand what the hell was going on in “The Phoenician Scheme” but still remember Benicio del Toro’s hangdog scowl. • I don’t remember a thing about “Eddington” or “Battle after Battle” and “After the Hunt.” • I walked out of “The Conjuring” and “Now You See Me” – and finished my popcorn in the car. The rise of digital media and streaming platforms may transform the way audiences consume films because of their diverse storytelling styles and genres. Netflix and Amazon Prime Video have opened a space for unconventional narratives that challenge traditional Hollywood formulas. Film scholar J. Hoberman finds that the flexibility of streaming platforms represents a new frontier for artistic expression in film: “The streaming era allows for longer narratives and deeper character explorations, akin to the best traditions of literature and theater." And we still have independent cinema that provides a venue for artistic risk-taking by way of unconventional narratives and emphasis on character development over spectacle. Richard Brody of The New Yorker notes that true artistry in film often resides outside the Hollywood system:“Independent filmmakers have the freedom to challenge societal norms and explore complex human emotions without the constraints of box office predictions.” I don’t own a television, so when I want to watch a movie at home, it’s coming at me on a thirteen-inch laptop screen. So streaming platforms, for me, are not movies. Also, the movie experience must, must involve popcorn – the kind you get only at a movie theater. I’m afraid my future Friday Flicks adventures may take me to Manhattan. Which ain’t a bad way to spend a Friday.

In the rush of the moment, in my wearying impatience with whatever was in the way of my plan, I forgot – despite the Christmas carols playing in the background. I forgot what C.S. Lewis warned us, that there are no ordinary people, that we have never talked to a mere mortal. Everyone we meet carries the weight of eternal destiny. I was in the holiday-crazed ShopRite supermarket in Stratford, Connecticut, with my younger daughter, Julie. We had come from her post-surgical procedure at Yale-New Haven’s Smilow Cancer Center and stopped at the supermarket to pick up just a few pantry items. We were looking for the “10 Items or Less” checkout lane, but, of course, there was none. So we chose to join the shortest line. But we soon saw that the queue was at a standstill because of an elderly man slowly and meticulously counting out coins to pay for his purchases. He was obviously flustered and confused, repeatedly laying his coins on the counter, stooped over, his mouth agape. Then he stopped to peer into his sack of groceries to see which items he might remove in order to lower the price. I instinctively made a snarky comment to my daughter. But the guy second in line, immediately in front of us, did something else. He spoke to the clerk who had been patiently standing there watching the old man trying to count up enough money to pay the total. He told her he would cover the guy’s groceries. To the tune of $76. The old guy thanked him profusely, shook his hand, and left. I thought, one of these two men is Christ. But I don’t know which. It’s in Matthew's Gospel that Christ identifies strongly with the vulnerable: "For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me . . .” Saint Paul reminds us we are "members one of another." Mother Teresa made this vision her cornerstone, seeing Christ in his most “distressing disguise” – the dying poor whom she lifted from Calcutta's streets. This is the mystical reality – that each of us bears the image of the divine – not only of Christianity, but other spiritual traditions as well. The Zen namaste has the divine in me saluting the divine in you. Judaism teaches that humans are created in the image of God, a concept from Genesis that signifies human dignity, sacredness, and a responsibility to reflect divine qualities like love and generosity. Islam holds that we’re endowed with Godly attributes like soul, reason, and free will, enabling us to be God's representatives on Earth. I left the supermarket last week with not just some staples, but also with a sackful of shame. Because after a life-long identification as a Catholic Christian, it never crossed my mind to offer a handful of change to help the old man buy food. Instead, I ridiculed him before my daughter. And I still don’t know which of the two men in front of me was the personification of the divine that day – the stooped old man with his meagre handful of coins, or the gentleman who lifted him from his humiliation. I pray that I learned my lesson. (Image: The blanketed figure on a park bench is known as the Homeless Jesus. The statue, at Roberts Park United Methodist Church in Indianapolis, is a permanent reminder of homelessness. It was created by Canadian artist Timothy P. Schmalz.)

It’s not working for me, this mail-order-bride business. At least this is what online dating services seem to be: shopping for love on Amazon and expecting next-day delivery. It’s been ten years since my wife of fifty years succumbed to breast cancer. I’ve lived a solo life since then with no dating, comfortably enjoying and nurturing close relationships with my two daughters. I even relocated from Honolulu to New Haven so I could be a short drive from each of them. I think I was driven to consider a dating service after my wife’s sister died of cancer herself. She and I had gotten into a weekly routine of long telephone conversations when we would kvetch about everything from kids to pets to politics. With her death, I lost that connection. So out of simple curiosity, I decided to “just see what’s out there.” I signed on to a six-month membership in eHarmony. eHarmony puts you through a lengthy personality test that determines how you match with others, calculated against their personality profile – your “compatibility score.” According to eHarmony, most of their members are seeking not a fling but a long-term and meaningful relationship. I didn’t realize it until I got into the guts of my self-analysis, but this seems to be what I, too, am after. Here’s what I wrote as my profile: I'm a retired widower who can't sit down. I publish books, a blog, and write poetry that's appeared in dozens of literary journals. I work with the ACS to teach patients to write poetry to ease the stresses of cancer, and I conduct Zoom classes for the public on writing healing poems. I don't look my age, am reasonably fit, personable, and know how to make people laugh. At various stages in my life, I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king. But I have a vacuum that wants to be filled by a confidante. A confidante. Hmm. My six-month subscription is ending next month with no results. I’ve received more than a dozen likes and messages from women I match with, but I haven’t responded to any of them – for a number of rather ridiculous reasons: • She lives too far away • Her name is the same as my daughter’s • She identifies as a political conservative • She keeps a pet • She plays golf • She loves to write (One psychotic writer in the house is enough.) • She’s looking for someone to share “all that life has to offer” • She’s a realtor I’m savvy enough to know the laundry list above has nothing to do with my inability to connect. The whole dating service concept is farkakte – messed up. When I met the young woman who became my wife, I didn’t ask for her political position. I didn’t care if she had a dog. In fact, she could have checked all the above items, and her kiss would have been just as sweet.

Tomorrow the Christian world will begin its annual vigil for the birth of the Christ child on December 25 – Advent. As the season beginning the Catholic Church's liturgical year, Advent (from, ad-venire in Latin or to come to ) encompasses the four Sundays that culminate in the celebration of Christmas. Like Lent, Advent is a period of penance – in the sense of preparing, quieting, and disciplining ourselves for the full joy of Christ’s nativity. Mercy by the Sea Retreat and Conference Center in Madison, Connecticut, asked me for a poem to help dress their Advent 2025 website. I obliged by writing a poem I titled “Advent.” Poet Henri Cole has likened poetry to holding a seashell to your ear and listening for the message intended just for you. I invite you to hold that seashell to your ear as you read my poem, and hear the message intended just for you: Advent By Peter W. Yaremko We live in dim light. Brightness forever fills the next room, or so it seems, while ours is to wait at a window and watch. Difficult to teach kids to prosper in such shade, much less be patient. Difficult for us to discern so much as yesterday, much less tomorrow. But for the watchful, dark gives way to dawn soon enough. Teach them this certainty. The light comes to us. Yes, the light always comes.

I'm sharing with you on this 2025 Thanksgiving Day an essay from a 1928 issue of "America" magazine. I’ve submitted poems to this publication numerous times over the years – all rejected. After reading the flowery and obscure language of this piece, I doubt I will submit my stuff anymore. Thanksgiving Day By The Editors THE ancient and honorable festival which we call Thanksgiving Day is at hand. In the fact that in the United States alone does the civil power set aside a day on which the people are invited to return thanks to Almighty God, the religious-minded citizen will find cause for gratification. The custom undoubtedly had its origin in pioneer New England, where under an extreme of Puritan influence it usurped for many years the place of Christmas Day. Joel and little Deborah might gambol it, in the grave fashion befitting a Puritan festival, on Thanksgiving Day, but the poor little creatures knew nothing of the Friend of children in His crib at Bethlehem. Happily, however, even in New England we can now turn our minds to God in grateful remembrance on the last Thursday in November, and feel our hearts respond with deeper gratitude as we contemplate God’s great Gift to the world on Christmas Day. Christian folk will note with pleasure that within the last decade and a half Thanksgiving Day has assumed a more definitely religious tone than some of us knew in our childhood. Once it was a day for feasting merely, and without cakes, ale, and our national bird, the turkey, the festival was sadly incomplete. With these creature comforts at hand, the beginnings of a day of solid comfort were beyond hazard. But Mr. Volstead has deprived us of ale, that creature baptized by centuries of Christian usage, and the food profiteers have made the once abundant turkey the peculiar comfort of the opulent gullet. The rest of us must procure such meats as are in keeping with our lean purses, and season the dish liberally with thankfulness. The custom of opening the churches for religious exercises is becoming common. There was a time when to throw open the doors on any morning save the Sabbath, savored of popery and the Gunpowder Plot. That era is passing as it should. Thanksgiving Day may be very properly celebrated with feasting, but its real purpose is lost unless we go down on our knees to return thanks to Almighty God for His countless blessings. Governor Smith expressed one part of our duty admirably in his speech of November 13. “America cannot be unmindful of the blessings that have been showered upon her by an Almighty and Divine Providence,” said the Governor. “No one can read our history and be unmindful of the proclamation of the President of the United States, asking that on Thanksgiving Day, in grateful appreciation, we offer thanks by prayer, and at the same time pray for a continuance of that benediction.” But we can go beyond this. For every Catholic the proper celebration of Thanksgiving Day will include, when possible, the bestowal of alms, attendance at the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, and the reception of Our Lord in Holy Communion.

We’re coming up on the one day a year given over to gratitude. But what’s to be thankful for when you’re suffering with Stage 4 cancer? In a world that constantly demands more—more achievement, more consumption, more speed—it’s almost radical to pause, to look closely at the ordinary miracles of our lives, and to acknowledge the interconnected web of relationships, circumstances, and small mercies that sustain us. But that’s exactly what poet and author David Whyte says is needed: "Gratitude is a radical act of attention." We’re conditioned to focus on lack: what we don't have, what we haven't achieved, what we might lose. Gratitude focuses our attention from what is lacking in our lives to what is abundant. The practice of gratitude literally reshapes our brains. By consciously focusing our attention on the positive aspects of life, we rewire our brains to notice and appreciate the good, creating a more optimistic and resilient mindset. It’s as if our brains can be trained the way muscles are. For people living with advanced cancer – like the patients I work with at the American Cancer Society in New York City – gratitude is not an exercise in pretending everything is fine, but a link to what is beautiful and meaningful in life. There’s a ton of science testifying to the therapeutic benefits of practicing gratitude. Scientific studies consistently point to gratitude as powerful therapy that spans mental, cognitive, and physical areas: • Greater emotional and social well-being • Reduced depression • Enhanced overall mental health • Less anxiety • Better coping by reframing negatives in order to see the positive • Better physical health • Sleep and heart health improvement • Stronger immune system • Lower blood pressure All this just from saying “Thank You.” Then there’s poetry – which offers something science cannot: the language to articulate and share the grace of giving thanks. Like these lines from Rainer Maria Rilke: Let this darkness be a bell tower and you the bell. As you ring, what batters you becomes your strength. Poetry spotlights the overlooked. It distills truth from everyday experience. It notices the unnoticed. It changes not what we have, but how we observe what we have. It offers us a path to gratitude's transformative power. Here’s a caveat, though. Trying to force an attitude of positivity that dismisses genuine pain only creates additional suffering. True gratitude coexists with grief, fear, and anger. We can feel devastated by a terminal diagnosis and at the same time be grateful for the nurse who holds our hand. Psychologist Robert Emmons, a leading researcher on gratitude, encourages the practice of reflecting on moments of beauty, connection, and kindness – even in the midst of suffering. Gratitude is about transforming pain into a source of strength. Expressing our gratitude can even benefit the people around us. When we’re in pain but still choose to express appreciation – for care received, for time together, for life itself – we invite others to remain present rather than back away out of a sense of discomfort. Poet Mary Oliver, who died of cancer, says this: "To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go."