It is Christmas Eve – for me at least because I was raised in a Catholic family. From my father’s side came the Polish traditions – Wigilia, the poor man’s dinner consisted of a late night family meal where only fish could be consumed, accompanied by the beet soup called Borscht with mushroom perogies. We would sing traditional songs at the piano and attend a Midnight Mass.

Then the my mother’s Ecuadorian traditions took over. We would return from Mass to open presents until two or three in the morning. Often the most bearded member of the family would play the surrogate Santa Clause and everyone would take turns accepting gifts from him and take pictures and so on.

Our house was the central HQ for the holiday season and so all the uncles and aunts and their growing legions of offspring would descend upon it. We could numbers in the dozens and the piles of wrapping paper could become quite formidable.

These traditions often came with some bemoaning as we opined about the gluttony and greed and consumerism, but also they maintained something else that was very important – the spirit of togetherness in a time of year that becomes quite cold and quiet and dark. It was a reminder that we all came from somewhere and that the things we believe, our perception of the world has direct roots to our upbringing. They also provided some sense of constancy in such a volatile reality and thus afforded us an anchor in the storm.

Years ago I studied Kaballah under the tutelage of a mystic named Gahl Sasson. One year, when I couldn’t make it home for Christmas, Gahl talked about a pattern that existed among all the great religions and traditions at this time of year – that is – that they all celebrated the Light in one form or another. I never forgot this teaching and was never quite so jaded about the holidays again. I Googled Gahl and sure enough he had a recent blog entry recapitulating what he had taught us in that ashram years ago. Rather than paraphrase I include a quote from his blog at CosmicNavigator here:

“The winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, is the day we encounter the least amount of light. The winter solstice has proven to be rather traumatic for many cultures in the Northern Hemisphere. As we progress toward the winter solstice, the days are stripped of their light. Everything becomes dark and gloomy. Early stargazers and shamans recognized this phenomenon and its deleterious effect on human mood and behavior…Bears have found a practical solution to winter depression. They just go to sleep. Psychologists devised a different remedy. They expose the patient to light. They call it light therapy.

[snip]

All over the world, wise elders, storytellers, religious teachers, and astrologers lit upon another solution. I am sure that you and your family have already practiced this same preventive medicine many times before. It’s called the holiday season, or to be more specific, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, Saturnalia, and Yule, just to name a few. Our astute ancestors, like modern day psychologists, could not help but notice that people’s moods sour as the days grow shorter. Versed in the practical applications of the ancient alchemical axiom of “as above, so below,” they figured that as the light slowly disappeared above, people’s energy levels declined correspondingly below. In order to enliven their communities, these ancients decided to concoct holiday festivities to crown the winter solstice with special significance. During the darkest time of the year, they created the holidays of light.”

Indeed as I walk through my neighborhood in Hollywood, California, I reflect upon the strings of white Christmas lights adorning the hedgerows in front of people’s homes and recognize that they are reminding us of the little lights in the darkness.

This was a fascinating and challenging year. The economy faced a shakedown the likes of which we haven’t experience in half a century.  Dozens, if not hundreds of major corporations, banks, and even industries went under. The game changed in so many ways that we were simply forced to surrender expectation to be able to maintain any semblance of sanity as we were tossed around the storm of change and entropy.

We also saw America elect the most unlikely of candidates into the Presidency. Barack Obama was an essentially untried politician whose message of hope and desire for change captured the imagination of not only the country but of the world.

I began the year by releasing a humble solo music album. I had fifteen years experience launching albums and thought that my knowledge and wisdom in the music market would serve me well. What I found was quite different. Gone was the interest of print media, even handmade indie Zines, as was the process of submitting a music video for television broadcast or even college radio. In its place were music micro blogs, affiliate marketing, search engine optimization, free music streams, linkback directories, and handing out CDs for free in the hundreds of units. Before I was a prophet of guerilla marketing. Now I was a podcaster, a blogger, a new media consultant. All because I recorded a small intimate collection of acoustic songs that I wrote in the windy forests of Northern Ontario, Canada.

I proclaimed the death of Web2.0 – that world of social linking and networking. I decried the glut of intentionally made viral videos and begged for the next phase, one that had already become comfortable with the ubiquity and reach of the new broadcasting power afforded to anyone with a webcam, and created something of substance, art and depth.

I may have been radically premature in these proclamations, however the bell tolls.

I am a different person at the end of 2008 than I was at its outset. I have been exposed to very powerful tools that track how people shop, think and behave, though I look at their thought processes in terms of keywords and statistics.

When I removed myself from Facebook, I felt a strange void, as though a giant lead wall had been erected between me and social network. As though I was the last man on Earth. And yet my hope and desire was that my self-imposed exile would restore the warmth and intimacy of those relationships.

I started reading more books, more of the time as a result. I took more walks out in the world. I recommenced drawing, exploring various hobbies like Lomo photography, model-making, cooking.

And now as we face the shortest days of light in the year, I can see the little beacons of humanity set out on those front lawns, reminding us that someone is still home. They are displaying those strings of little hopes that say, its alright, the world may be at its darkest, but we have been here a long time, as substantiated by our traditions, and we have returned after the darkness to explore new ground time and time again.

Have a happy and safe holiday and thanks for reading The Culturepin this year.

Keram