Lyon - November 22, 2004

This year, as the holidays approach, I'd like to pause for a moment, to contemplate the meaning of life. Why are we here, and for what purpose - or is there none? Peter Guillaume once wrote, "The meaning of life lies somewhere between where I'm standing, and where I wish to be." At this moment, I stand in a small bubble of warmth and comfort amid the blistering winds and ever plunging temperatures of a Lyon stumbling into winter. Outside, the tram runs through near-deserted streets, and the cafés do a brisk business selling warm drinks to the shivering travelers. I write 'travelers,' without knowing why. Do they, like me, have always a foot planted in some foreign land, an eye and ear trained in that direction, a mouth for whom the local foods will never taste quite exactly right? Or are they contentedly grounded in the only life they've ever known, or sought? Either, or both - the heat warms them equally, the coffees and chocolates grant all a short solace from the winds of the world. They shiver, both, stepping into the cold. It is a chill that creeps too quickly, at this time of year, passing by all hats and jackets, through flesh and bone, and tightening ice over the hearts of these travelers. The wind blows strong, and leaning against it, it is difficult to see beyond: out of sight, the solaces seem far away, and easily forgotten. Their warmth appears feeble and wavering in the howling winds of a too-long winter. Solace becomes a shallow word, filled easily by bitterness and cynicism, while the cold runs too deep, almost, to imagine anything remaining beneath. A jewel long ago buried, solace begins to lose its shine, dims under layers of encrusting ice. And yet, God will not let it fade completely. Its warmth remains, however hard to find. For all the news stories, shards of scandal and murder, election and torture, falling frozen like hail into the cratered wastes of our age, there are always those others, too, that remind us of the warmth still holding steady in places, in spite of it all. These remind us that the cold is not everywhere, not forever. As long as these scattered patches of warmth remain, however faint, cold has not won. And it is these patches that give life meaning: finding and helping them, creating them, fighting in some small way to better the world. It is for these areas of warmth and solace that I am grateful for this year, as the holidays draw near. Happy Thanksgiving, and God bless you all.