It is Christmas time. As in most communities, this means so many things: a mix of believers, purveyors, and lemmings of CASHmas. Everyone in my community of communities assumes I believe as they do. There are many micro differences alluding to the true meaning of Christmas that go well beyond Christian, Muslim, Jew and other world views. This assumption that the TV station's doorkeeper is agreeable to the content being delivered for play on television is comfortable. But often I need to swallow hard my beliefs. My self-talk affirms Your values and the mission come first. Avoid affiliation with the content. Affirm the person in this space.
As I decluttered and sculpted data for year-end reports that affirm our successes, I sensed a disquiet in my soul about my own identity. In the home of free speech, I lost mine. The realization tasted like stale peanut butter or so this unquenchable Aha moment seemed to suggest. For five years of 'community building,' I had actually silenced my self. My allergy cough often comes to my rescue with imperceptible good timing in the suppression of 'me.'
I was, by choice, not Christian. I was not participating in the rituals or traditions of Christmas, but I was enabling them to be shared as television content for this holiday and every Sunday. The TV station was decorated with a few nonsectarian snowmen, penguins, teddy bears and ribbons on abandoned public access fake trees; no affiliation could be discerned in the festive trappings to a specific holiday.
At the intersection of my life and that of the station, there is often an interruption by my husband and partner in service. Our shared story under this title ends:
As he washes the black from his hands he says, "By the way, the cookies were in the trash."
