December 29, 2025
Monday

“The magical moments are over,” said my pastor yesterday. That’s a fact. I was there. I heard her say it. She meant that all the romanticized images and stories about the birth of the Christ in the reign of Herod the Great have run their course for this year. No more angel choirs, friendly beasts, rum-pum-pum, nor Frosty the Snowman kneeling at the manger. No manger, either. We have work to do to spread the message Jesus brought — feed the hungry, shelter the unhoused, protect the vulnerable, and call out those in power when they not only fail to help, but instead make it even harder for our brethren to help themselves.

Some of that push to speak truth to power crept into my attitude today. Less than a week ago I decided to eschew the Airing of Grievances for Festivus because I had received a generous measure of calm and serenity through my spiritual endeavors, and was feeling disinclined to grumble. What I’m about to cavil about right now certainly isn’t on the same level as trying to save civilization, but it’s bothering me today and I am going to tell you about it.

I received an email this morning from one of the way-too-many bloggers and Substackers and other “influencers” whose output I subscribe to. This one signaled that it was about a popular practice undertaken in these waning days of 2025: choosing your “Word of the Year” for 2026. The essay began thus:

“If you take care of the small things, the big things take care of themselves.” Emily Dickinson

No. No, no, a thousand times no! Emily Dickinson did NOT say that. It doesn’t even sound like her. It doesn’t even sound like anybody else from the 19th century. (Disclaimer here: Although I’ve studied Emily Dickinson and the 19th century as a serious scholar, I haven’t actually read it all, so I could be wrong. But not likely.) Though I was irritated by this facile misattribution, I kept reading.

I could read only two or three paragraphs. At that point I was informed that in order to read the rest of this individual’s journey to choosing her word of the year, I would have to PAY to read the rest. Evidently, she has several components to her online presence (so do I). This one, her most personal work, costs $80 a year. She has 34,000 subscribers. I’m just a free subscriber, which evidently means I have access to notifications about what I’m missing by not upgrading to paid. (I can, however, view her online store — she designs and sells calendars and journals and cute pens and hats and such — and buy them for free.)

I’ve come across this phenomenon elsewhere — a thought or an aphorism plopped into a notebook or a planner or a guide to good living from someone truly influential (Michelle Obama, or Shonda Rhimes, or Oprah) without context, taking up a lot of space. I hate it. It’s annoying.

And that’s it for tonight. I’ve decided not to take the bait and unsubscribe even from her free offering. And I understand, once again, that complaining, even about something important, takes a lot of emotional energy and just brings me down.

Here’s my pledge. Markings: Days of Her Life, will forever remain free. You can count on that.