It must be something in the air. That, or reading my sister’s holiday supply of Calvin and Hobbes comics. I’m feeling particularly silly and hysterical. All five children at home for three days in a row is really beginning to add up to some very interesting interactions. I forgot what fun it was to insult my brother. . .

The pile of gifts under the tree is getting tantalizing. I can’t remember which all gifts I wrapped. Can we just open them now? I keep trying to make a stack of books to take on the skiing trip, but half of the ones I’m planning on are wrapped up under the tree for someone else.

Monday morning we’re leaving early to go skiing for five days in New York. I’m not really sure why we planned a route that necessitates going through Buffalo, which as I remember always has a blizzard right after Christmas; but oh well. We should get back two days before the next schedule starts, so that leaves time for getting stuck in the snow.

On a more serious note, here are two excerpts from John Donne’s La Coronna:


Salvation to all that will is nigh;

That All, which always is all everywhere,

Which cannot sin, and yet all sins must bear,

Which cannot die, yet cannot choose but die,

Lo ! faithful Virgin, yields Himself to lie

In prison, in thy womb; and though He there

Can take no sin, nor thou give, yet He’ll wear,

Taken from thence, flesh, which death’s force may try.

 Ere by the spheres time was created thou

Wast in His mind, who is thy Son, and Brother;

Whom thou conceivest, conceived; yea, thou art now

Thy Maker’s maker, and thy Father’s mother,

Thou hast light in dark, and shutt’st in little room

Immensity, cloister’d in thy dear womb.


Immensity, cloister’d in thy dear womb,

Now leaves His well-beloved imprisonment.

There he hath made himself to his intent

Weak enough, now into our world to come.

But O! for thee, for Him, hath th’ inn no room?

Yet lay Him in this stall, and from th’ orient,

Stars, and wise men will travel to prevent

The effects of Herod’s jealous general doom.

See’st thou, my soul, with thy faith’s eye, how He

Which fills all place, yet none holds Him, doth lie?

Was not His pity towards thee wondrous high,

That would have need to be pitied by thee?

Kiss Him, and with Him into Egypt go,

With His kind mother, who partakes thy woe.