It’s the twelfth day of Christmas, and there is room for squee!
And even a parade, if you follow the Spanish tradition of the Three Wise Kings (Los Tres Reyes Magos) —
— or an opportunity to publicize rescued dogs who are up for adoption by turning them into helpers:
More information (autotranslated).
Now, here is a four-video playlist of squee!
Yes, we met all these little foxes in 2022-2023, and there are information links galore in the posts on:
Meanwhile, in Iceland…
👀https://t.co/dNER4TJde2 pic.twitter.com/y4SZ8gAEX2
— Birkir (@birkirh) January 1, 2024
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Revontulet hunts near the lava.
A little lagniappe:
For some reason, this is a huge deal in the Canaries (islands that were named after their dogs — canes in Latin — not the birds, which actually took their name from the islands):
There is one custom in Spain, and probably in other southern countries, which might be a model of the popular instinct for poetry in action. It is what corresponds to our idea of Santa Claus, who is, of course, St Nicolas, and in the North the patron of children and the giver of gifts at Christmas. In the South this function is performed by the Three Kings, and the gifts are given at the Epiphany. It is in a sense more logical, which, perhaps, is why it is common among the Latins. The Wise Men are in any case bringing gifts to the Holy Child, and they bring them at the same time to the human children. But there is in connexion with it an excellent example of how people who retain this popular instinct can actually act a poem.
The mysterious Kings arrive at the end of the holiday, which again is really very reasonable. It is much better that the games and dances and dramas, which are fugitive, should come first and the children be left with the presents, or permanent possessions, at the end. But it is also the occasion of a process very mystical and moving to the imagination. The Kings are conceived as coming nearer and nearer every day; and, if there are images of these sacred figures, they are moved from place to place every night. That alone is strangely thrilling, either considered as a child’s game or as a mystic’s meditation on the mysteries of time and space. On the last night of all, when the strange travellers through time are supposed to arrive, the children carefully put out water and green stuff for the camels and the horses of that superhuman cavalcade out of the depths of the East. Even the touch of putting water, so necessary to purely Eastern animals, is enough to suggest that reach of the imagination to the ends of the earth.
Now, that is only one example, out of hundreds that can be collected in any valley or countryside, of something which people in simpler times had the power to create; a complete and concrete drama perfectly plain and unfathomably profound. What I want to know about modern civilization, which in many ways cares so much for beauty, which in some ways cares far too much for beauty, is why it cannot produce these beautiful things. I do not want it to copy Spain and the Three Kings, or to copy Scandinavia and St Nicolas, or to copy any particular local ritual. But why can it never invent anything of its own? I have long paused for a reply.
Featured image: Maya Shustov/Shutterstock
Flight To Wonder 