So this is Christmas...

This time of year, when rampant commercialism passes for religion, I feel called upon to remember the humility and courage of my friends in Africa. Being back in the states for so long, it's easy to forget the scarcity and the stirring, peaceful stillness from everyday life in Uganda. It's almost frightening how easy it is to forget.

America is an absurd place. We have the audacity to "wage" an economic crisis after spending money without having it, and the systemic policy failures to make the poorest endure the most because of it. The news is full of "downsizing Christmas" stories and the middle class will have only one prime rib roast on the table this year.

It's not impossible to gain perspective in this city, where beggars and bankers swath the streets together. Wealth and destitution have a complicated marriage in New York, and mutual bitterness is their child. The space between the rich and the poor is only a little easier to see in the urban microcosm outside than it is anywhere. But the reality it exposes is universal.

With little to wish for except the strength and guts to do good by my friends, I'm left only to listen once more to what they've taught me about gratitude. Today I write to the Scovias, Zaitunas, Annes, and on - all the people who touched my life forever, whose simple wisdoms remade a soul. You have far less than most Americans will ever comprehend, but your fortitude is unimaginable. Thank you for what you've given me, I hope not to squander it, but make good on my promises some day.

This holiday, may your tables be filled with sustenance. May your children have workbooks and pencils. May your bodies have health. May your hearts know security. May your souls be full, so full, with stillness.

Randomness and the night sky

**Sometimes modern life blows my mind, and it should blow yours, too.

I live in New York City. Despite the grand, sparkling lights (which are not visible from below) - the night skies are a disappointment. There is no darkness. No reminder of nothingness at all. No stars. Like an Allman Brother without a Melissa, we are a city without night. In fact, there are only a few areas in the U.S. where one can see the Milky Way anymore. Only in the deepest jungles and undeveloped lands, can humans look up and see the galactic swirl above us - reminding us of our tininess, insignificance, and the grandness of everything.

Some scientists remark at the lack of darkness as negatively affecting wildlife (those poor sea turtles can't find their way to the ocean). Others take my point of view - without darkness, without night, without stars, without the Milky Way - we lose a slice of humanity. We can no longer see that which we cannot grasp - we are limited by earthly trimmings. How can our souls long? How can we yearn to know what we never will? How can we be humbled by the night sky as we once were?