How the weasels reinvented Christmas

The nativity, err, um nortivity, as enacted by weasels from Celestine and the Hare.

New rabbit, M. Kelly.

In the weeks leading to Christmas, I fell under the spell of a FB page called Celestine and the Hare.  Created by felting artist Karin of Monmouth, Wales, it is home to her felted creatures including a great many weasels and the stories and videos of their antics.  It seemed the antics reached a pinnacle during the holidays with an animated advent calendar and ongoing saga of the animals' attempt to stage a nativity pageant.  Karin added to my vocabulary with her words "norty" (translation: naughty), and "choklit" and "sekrits," of which there were many at this time of year.

Finding her page, looking forward each day to generously and frequently posted photos, videos and accounts of nortiness, I abandoned myself to the magic of play, of silliness and the delight of surprise as a child might experience it.  Celestine gave me a world in which I did not have to believe that Christmas wonder was solely a thing of the past.  I laughed out loud every morning and read comments from others who were doing the same.  With a lightened heart, I drew the softer rabbit (above) and began to experiment with a slightly altered illustration style.

There was emotion connected to this Christmas, welcome, warm feelings, that nearly undid me.  To take in the miracles, the magic, the quiet yet bursting gladness, demanded, still demands, stillness and sleep.  What is enormous cannot be digested quickly.  As the metaphors rage on, I have the sense of being a river reduced by drought to a narrow and turgid pretender, which suddenly gains volume and again races swiftly, reaching from bank to bank.

A dormant or possibly missing aspect of me-doing-Christmas was revived or restored, as though through elfin craftiness, by a combination of surprises and benevolence.  That renewed, low-key glee continues to require a soft tread, an avoidance of sudden, startling moves, not because I fear it will flee but to acknowledge its precious nature.  I continue to be a mystery to myself, as does the Christmas of a seriously mature adult.   So little, really, is what we once thought it to be.