Most likely, the above title evokes the 1843 novelette, A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens (1812–1870.) In my working years, I read it annually in early December, as if moved along by Tiny Tim’s crutch, to attain the Yuletide spirit. My mood, generally outraged by the predatory commercialization of Christmas advertising and promotion before Thanksgiving, gradually inched forward from the famed “Bah! Humbug” orations of Scrooge, before his overnight reformation by three Christmas spirits, to the delightful, loving characters of Old Fezziwig, Bob Cratchit and Scrooge’s nephew, Fred. After reading the novelette several times, I knew the dialog by heart, and could quote the lines.

In recent years, I had taken to watching one of the several movies based upon the book. Though the dialog remains substantially true to the book, the effect is different. Reading the book builds images in your mind, which differ significantly from what the Director of the moment presents to you in a movie, so I have returned to my annual read, and recommend it highly.

Christmas meant much to Charles Dickens. Over his career, he wrote at least five Christmas books and twenty one Christmas stories (Oxford Press,) as well as a splattering of Christmas reflections within some of his other novels. One such passage reveals a telling, sentimental reflection, which will rekindle pleasant memories of this joyous time.

“And numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief season of happiness and enjoyment. How many families, who have been dispersed and scattered far and wide, in the restless struggles of life, are then reunited, and meet once again in that happy state of companionship and mutual good will, which is a source of such pure and unalloyed delight . . .”

“Many of the hearts that throbbed so gaily then, have ceased to beat; many of the looks that shone so brightly then, have ceased to glow; the hands we grasped have grown cold; the eyes we sought have hid their lustre in the grave; and yet the old house, the room, the merry voices and smiling faces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute and trivial circumstances connected with those happy meetings, crowd upon our mind at each recurrence of the season, as if the last assemblage had been but yesterday! Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth; that can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of miles away, back to his own fire-side and his quiet home.”
(The Pickwick Papers, Chapter XXVIII by Charles Dickens, Oxford University Press)

May your Christmas be merry and reflective.

All writers strive to write about something. In this post, I intend to write about nothing. Surprisingly, I am not the first to do so. After all, William Shakespeare wrote an entire play about it: “Much Ado About Nothing.” Five authors approached the topic from different perspectives:

— “ I love to talk about nothing. Its the only thing I know anything about.”
Oscar Wilde, (1854—1900)

— “ . . . but what I like doing best is nothing.”
Christopher Robin, The House at Pooh Corner by A. A. Milne (1882—1956)

— “There is no fun in doing nothing when you have nothing to do.”
Jerome K Jerome (1859—1927)

— “Nothing can come from nothing.”
King Lear by William Shakespeare (1564—1616)

— “When nothing is sure, everything is possible.”
Margaret Atwood (b 1939)

I have used a variation of Wilde’s quote in situations when someone uninvitedly butts into my conversation, asking what we are talking about. “Oh, we are talking about what we know best — nothing.”

While still in harness working long hours, I turned to Christopher Robin’s approach whenever the opportunity occurred, reveling in a brief respite to relax on the patio, to nap on the couch, or to bask in pleasant reverie; i.e., doing nothing to recharge my energy source from a demanding job. I had plenty to do, and welcomed a respite, however short.

Upon retirement, however, I pondered Jerome’s approach, feeling a deep concern about what I was going to do with my time — a key question every retiree needs to answer. Obviously, doing nothing regularly may be injurious to one’s good health in body and mind, but I resolved to do nothing for six months, which meant, in translation, that I would only do what I wanted to do. I declined all offers of employment or volunteer work, allowing the sheer pleasure of inactivity to seep into my weary bones, to unwind from an all-demanding job and to reflect on goals for my remaining days. Affectionately, I refer to that time as my “sabbatical,” a once in a lifetime opportunity, unless employed in academia.

Thereafter, seeking to add some balance between “nothing can come from nothing” and “when nothing is sure, everything is possible,” I initiated multiple tasks across different disciplines with one major difference: I accepted only what I wished to do, a yoke-freeing delight.

I will conclude with a quote, expertly quantifying “nothing”:

— “More powerful than God, more evil than the Devil; the poor have it, the rich lack it, and if you eat it you die.” Margaret Atwood (1939)