Sometimes, I say “Unitarians” because saying “Unitarian Universalist” doesn’t roll off the tongue elegantly and instead conveys the stiff, dry, formal air that some Unitarian Churches have.
Ours is free from that; dare I voice my eternal critique of my beloved church? Yes, I dare: we’re perhaps too informal and too light on the ritual. That’s not unknown to anyone there. We do what works for the most people, and I accommodate because to live sanely one must have a thirst for compromise on things that aren’t as important as they may seem.
I won’t compromise about Trump and his Neo-Nazi Swamp-Dwellers, though. Don’t worry. For someone who claims to have wanted to “drain the swamp,” he instead moved the swamp into the White House and stocked his cabinet with professional, full-time shitters who are actively shitting and pissing into the swamp. That’s not just a slap in the face to me; that’s like taking a mallet to the faces of the people who were dumb enough and bigoted enough to vote for him in the first place.
And to vote for Trump, it took some combination of idiocy and prejudice that would kill me if it ever coursed through my body, so some of those people might well live past God.
Back to looking nice: while dress pants allow my crotch more freedom than jeans, my neck pays the heavy price of pseudo-strangulation from ties that adorn me; I look stunning and feel mostly great in a suit but at the cost of my air supply. I have a big dick and a thick neck. Beauty is birthed by pain, but if I were straight, I would probably not be helping to birth many children as tight as most pants are in the crotch.
We also mostly say “UUs” around each other because we know what we mean. Other people might figure it out, or maybe they don’t.
This Sunday, we’re going to make Yule Logs. I’ve never made a Yule Log; certain traditions have generally escaped me for the duration of my life because burning logs would almost be a foreign practice to me except when I was a small child, the farmer and his wife who watched me heated their home by burning logs in a fireplace.
Yule Logs don’t seem to be function like that these days; one doesn’t just toss it into a fireplace. Instead, they include candles and decorations and are probably in some cases rendered reusable.
This rings of the Advent Wreath my family lights. I think, however, that we’ll focus on the Yule Log bringing us a good New Year. The function is different even if the appearance is related.
Trying things I’ve often heard of in my 31 years but have never done is great fun. Last year’s adventure was in Figgy Pudding, called Christmas Pudding in this case. My husband didn’t care for it, as he was turned off by the sight of a large burnt-looking pile of moist cake, but I found it to be delicious and enjoyed the 2000 or so calories in it all to myself.
The name is deceptive, but antiquity has a way of deceiving us youngsters who have been deprived of perfectly valid and fun traditions in the name of modernism, and falsely so, I might add. Nothing about the modern world dictates that we should disregard something as mouth-pleasing as figgy pudding or that doing so pushes us into a better world. Alas, somewhere the senses of a well-meaning pseudo-progressive are reacting to my suggestion that tradition isn’t an evil unto itself, and they’re ready to write a strongly-worded Tumblr post in the name of social justice that misses the point entirely.
Somehow, in spite of that, I’ll survive.
“Survival” will probably be the word of 2017. Let’s hope not. Let’s hope “thriving” is the word.
Light the candles, light the logs, even if your face is streaked with tears and dirt and you are tired.