Some time ago, I came across a quote that went more or less like this: 
Art is a collaboration between the artist and God, with the artist preferably doing as little as possible. 

I gleefully pounced upon this (by which I mean I shared it instantly on Twitter) as it seemed to explain, neatly and beautifully, the fundamentally metaphysical nature of all art. As far as I was concerned, 'creation'- both the process and the end-result- happened somewhere deep in the unconscious, unfathomable depths; think about it too much and it was gone. All it consisted of was more than a little divine intervention, and some willingness to let it do its thing; to pass through you, and out into the world.

While this seemed to tie in perfectly with what the quote was trying to say, my problem was that I frequently used this as a licence for laziness. I have written about 'craft/graft' earlier, and how they're essentially the same thing, but in the context of this quote, I realised there's something critical it doesn't quite spell out, but certainly implies. Or should imply. 

Because the crux of the matter is this- given that it is a collaboration (and I believe it is), and the artist must quite rightly do as little as possible (because it's not really about them)- the amount they do is relative to how much God does. 

And this makes all the difference. When the one who created the universe, flung stars into space, and made everything that ever was and ever will be; when that God, in all his infinite wisdom, is orchestrating a collaboration with you on something, anything -- exactly what are you going to bring to the table? It better be better than your very best, because that's the least He deserves. 
There's a thought for the New Year.

Man with the Sad Eyes, 
He never cries; 
Stores up burdens of his past, 
behind a wall of lies. 

Man with the Sad Eyes, 
Is easy to despise; 
Seems unspeakably clever, 
but is merely worldly-wise. 

Man with the Sad Eyes, 
Is never short of sighs; 
He's accustomed to Disappointment, 
and a stranger to Surprise. 

Man with the Sad Eyes, 
Learns to improvise; 
For the world was still so beautiful, 
Despite those tired, sad eyes.

This New Year, I don't wish for much. 
Just a few little things. 
Like freedom from fear. 
An end to despair; and to indifference. 
I wish for happiness. 
For innocence, justice, grace.
Love. 
Patience. 
Unwavering faith. 
Like I said, not much. 
Just, you know, the basics.

You know, it just occurred to me that I never wished you a happy new year. Lord knows I wished almost everyone else- and some even more than once. 

It's been an interesting few years since that giddy afternoon in Feb nearly five years ago, hasn't it? All those places we've been; all those miles travelled. I know they've taken their toll. But then again, none of us is getting any younger. Those little creaks and niggles, minor irritants in our younger days, they suddenly feel a lot harder to shake off. I know what it's like, I really do. 

Still, we've come this far. I have no idea how much longer we have together but I'd just like to say I've enjoyed every minute. And despite everything, I'd like to think you have, too. I know I'm a sentimental old fool, but when I put you into fifth gear the other day, I almost felt you smile through the pain. 

So, Dylan, here's to you and me and 2015. The road awaits.

Oh no, what's this? 
A spider web and I'm caught in the middle.
So I turn to run, 
And thought of all the stupid things I'd done.

And I never meant to cause you trouble.
And I never meant to do you wrong.
And I... well if I ever caused you trouble,
Oh no, I never meant to do you harm.

-Trouble, Coldplay

It was the 7th of January, 2015, when the last of the fairy lights came down and I stopped for a few moments to survey the wreckage of my 33rd Christmas. Large parts of the festivities had by this point dissipated into the fumes that trailed 2014 as it departed; other parts stuck in the memory like one of those particularly troublesome chicken bones that get lodged in the one place the toothbrush can never quite reach. 

There we all are, sitting around the dinner table, stuffed full of secrets, wearing festive jumpers but thinking distinctly un-festive thoughts. The menu is as elaborate as ever, and there are even some new dishes making an appearance for the first time- the main course consists mainly of free-range deception, with assorted sides of lies. Revenge is in the refrigerator (to be served cold in due course). On the hob, mild resentment is simmering away, about to come to the boil. Someone is always on hand to stir things up, and soon the knives will be out. Peace on earth and goodwill to men, we sing, with all the faux goodwill we can muster. Pass the salt please, someone says, but it is usually judgement that gets passed instead. 

I must admit I am not sure whether I am imagining an actual event, a memory, or indeed a memory of a memory. Perhaps it is all the merriment playing tricks with my mind- the bright colours, the immaculately wrapped presents, the well-meaning earnestness of it all. I have to fight to not get swept up by it, to maintain the steely defence of a wartime mentality, for I am acutely aware no truce has been declared; this was just a temporary ceasefire. 

And where was I, you ask? I was at the table too, there was no escaping it. There I am, consuming chicken breast and being consumed by guilt and self-loathing. My thoughts drift- I imagine I am a Christmas tree; I am decorating myself, on the ends of each of my branches I hang one bauble at a time- there they are, glinting as they briefly catch the light. There is Pride, Envy, Anger, Low Self-Esteem, Pettiness… I am losing count. Suffice to say it is a busy tree.(No tinsel though- that's tacky. Apparently.) Lingering Fear is always the tree-topper. I think that has always been my over-riding emotion this time of year. A strange, star-shaped fear that at any moment, everything would come apart like cheap gift-wrap. That one little word would tip the whole sad charade over. Come to think of it, maybe that's what needed to happen. Now that would be a cracking Christmas. 

I am now packing away my little Nativity scene; Mary with her beatific smile, Joseph with his calm aloofness, and the little infant Jesus. I can't help but think Jesus had it a bit easy. Sure, at least three of his 33 years weren't the most comfortable of rides, and there are literally only two, maybe three, people I know on whom I would wish that sort of death, but- He didn't have to navigate Christmas. There's a bullet He most certainly dodged. Being the reason for it doesn't seem nearly half as difficult as having to celebrate the thing every year. I wondered what He would make of us now, allegedly throwing birthday parties for Him (it's His birthday but everyone else gets the gifts) but in reality merely managing, at best, mild desecration. 

I sometimes wish He'd just told us, in clear words that were not open to interpretation, how He wanted His birth remembered. That would have helped, I think. Or, even better, a list. Seems to me that lists are what keep modern civilisation from completely self-destructing. So a quick handy checklist, a sort of 10 Commandments for Christmas, would have been ideal. I'd like to go out on a limb and suggest that in such an event, the following three might well have featured: 

1. Thou shalt not be starting Christmas sales in August. This is absurd. 
2. Thou shalt not chop down trees just to hang trinkets on them because this really has nothing to do with anything. 
3. Thou shalt serve up just three dishes for any given meal because any more than that is a clear symptom of one of the seven deadly sins. Thou knowest the one. 

But He didn't. He left us to it, and with a depressing inevitability, we messed it up. Again. 

I'll say one thing about it, though- sometimes it takes the celebration of a divine birth to show us all how truly human we are. 

I am now feeling a little tired. I've packed the boxes and put them back on the shelf for another year, and they sit side-by-side now with the fake smiles and Santa hats. The words 'Happy New Year!' ring out from some dusty corner of the mind, and I smile wryly to myself. Yes, it may be a Happy New Year. Or it may not. I'm trying to keep an open mind. Ok, maybe not completely open. I've always thought the door to my mind would be one of those revolving ones, so people, places, things, could drift in and out with ease. There'd be no danger of them overstaying their welcomes, no opportunity for familiarity to breed contempt. In, Out, In, Out. 

As I close my eyes, I picture another scene- of a man swimming away from a beach towards the vast expanse of the ocean. It looks like he's swimming in the wrong direction; I feel like I need to stop him, to spin him around, direct him back to the shore where everyone else is. But I don't, I keep watching and then I go higher and can see farther out into the distance and I realise the ocean is much bigger than I imagined and the man is so much smaller, and then I go higher still, until the man is just a tiny speck, but then my eyes scan the horizon and there's another speck, and I can just about make out the shape of a little island. I realise the man is headed for that island, he is in fact escaping the shore he had just left behind and is travelling towards this place of glorious isolation. I want to see who the man is, but by this point I am so high up that I can't see his face and it makes me sad. This is the last thing I remember before everything goes black.