Redemption. (Patreon)

It's one of my favorite themes of good literature. I know it's a pretty consistent theme in most of the world's religions, but that makes sense — the yearning for redemption is one of the most pervasive and elusive of all the human-kinds-of-things. Only makes sense that it would seep into our popular culture, our churches, our drawers of hotel rooms. I'm not a very religious person, but as an atheist who doesn't like raining on other folks' parades provided they're trying their best to be and do good, I would like to hope that I'm on the universe's good side. 

A Christmas Carol is my very favorite story. When I was a little girl, we had the audio cassettes of Patrick Stewart performing his one-man rendition of this classic Dickens tale, and I was always enraptured. There are certain Holiday traditions we have when we're small, that we carry with us as we grow up, and that still hold true when we're jaded adults. For some, it's A Charlie Brown Christmas while eating corned beef hash on Christmas morning before tearing into the presents; for others, it's having a good laugh and tearing up while trying to recreate Grandma's cookies; for others still, it might be a favorite song, a smell, that quiet moment of reflection that comes during the rarity this time of the year affords, when we hopefully have enough days off work to allow for such moments to take place without a monkey on our shoulder. But for me, it's A Christmas Carol. 

When I was little, it was the funny voices that the Englishman could make, all by himself. The fact that he could swing so effortlessly from utter zeal to detached apathy, and then, to the harrowing depth of despair. And then? Back again. But as I grew up, and the inevitable regrets started to mount, I found Scrooge's ghost story (one, I think, that Dickens didn't have any clue would be so enduring) stuck with me because it did a damned fine job at presenting a brief, literal look at a person's transformation. Scrooge starts as a hideous ogre, and through a series of experiences, recollections, and imposed opportunities for reflection, comes out on the other side, yearning, pleading, begging for something as simple as a second chance — that thing we nicely say everyone deserves, and yet, are so unwilling to administer in our daily lives.  Either to others, or to ourselves. We know we try. And we know we try hard. Sometimes, however, we tend to forget that others try hard, too, so caught up are we in our own circumstance. Not all of us succeed. Some of us do. And so it goes. 

One of my favorite quotes, one that I've loved enough to (try to) commit it to memory, is by the American film critic, Roger Ebert. He was most notable for writing reviews of movies, but toward the end of his life, he wrote a memoir titled Life Itself (great book, an easy read, just lovely). In an excerpt of it, he says:

"'Kindness' covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try."

Yoda tells us that we should do, or do not, and that there is no try (but that's another essay for another time); Kurt Vonnegut reminisced about a character in that, “He tried. That's the big thing. He tried to do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying so hard.” Authors, philosophers, and religious leaders have all consistently reminded us, since time immemorial, that failure is nothing compared to the harrowing inability to try. 

If you know to look for it, you can find the cause-and-effect relationship between trying-and-redemption all the hell over the place. It's everywhere, embedded into our culture, our human DNA, impossible to remove, like glitter. And dammit, when you're feeling down, as still many of us are, during this time of the year especially, finding that nugget during some self-imposed scavenger hunt can be a real make-or-break. 

So, imagine my delight the other day, when I came across this little gem. I've been out of the loop for a little while, and even though I'm a huge fan of musical theatre, Hamilton in particular, I had no idea the folks in charge were doing these monthly collaborations called HamilDrops, where guest musicians came in, once a month during 2018, and lent their talent to re-doing tracks from Hamilton in their particular style (side note: if, like me, you happen to be a fan of Hamilton, "Weird Al" Yankovic, and didn't know these bits of crazy creative talent were happening, just click here to let your nerdy inner 13-year-old come rolling out).

Anyway, the last of these drops came out just the other day, and Barack Obama, of all folks, made an appearance. This big, soulful, choral rendition of a song off the soundtrack, and right there, in the middle, a voice the whole world knows is reading the words from a man who lived so long ago, and did so many big things, that the majority of the Western World pretty much deifies him: Our most recent former president, reading some lines from George Washington's farewell address in 1796. At first, I thought that it was Obama reading his own writing, and that he decided to get flowery with it. But some ideas withstand the passing of the centuries.

For me, the song was a little overwhelming (in a good way), and I desperately wanted to see Washington's 200-plus-year-old words on a page so I could feel them (so to speak). So I'll just quote it here in case you're like me in that way:

"Though, in reviewing the incidents of my administration, I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors. (...) I shall also carry with me the hope that my country will never cease to view them with indulgence; and that, after forty five years of my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as myself must soon be to the mansions of rest."

It takes a few times to read it, and to dissect it. But at the end, in this second-to-last sentence to the nation he helped create, George had the wisdom to say, "Listen, I've been thinking about it. I'm not perfect. I know that. But I hope that people will, for as long as they remember what I did here, always feel OK in calling me out on it. I did the best I could, and I hope it works out."

What a beautiful way, I think, to say, 

"Hey. I fucking tried."

Merry Christmas, Everybody. More to come.