. . .when Chekhov saw the long winter, he saw a winter bleak, and dark, and bereft of hope . . . (Conners)
I wonder sometimes what would stir me enough to leave the comfort and safety of the womb I have created for myself, and venture forth on an unknown journey such as these “three wise men” of the Christmas story took. At one time, it would have been adventure, curiosity, a sense of mission and sacred purpose, a calling . . . Now I suspect that the only thing that would compel me to undertake such a journey would be extreme discomfort, and fear that would border on terror rather than just alarm.
And my sense is that our refugees today experience that kind of discomfort and terror, following their own “star” not so much to a place of possibility and new beginnings, as away from danger and hardship. From my impossibly smug and complacent existence, at least in contrast to theirs, I feel like an old groundhog, burrowed into my den, and not about to emerge into a world that is dark and cold and inhospitable.
Do groundhogs, I wonder, ever venture forth in winter by choice, in those times when their biological rhythms say “hibernate, fool,” when physically they are not ready for such rigors? Maybe if their burrow was blown up . . . Or, for this old groundhog at least, if their discomfort finally overcame their biological predispositions . . .
So . . . What would “three wise groundhogs” do if the “star” that drew them forth was that of survival? Go, or else, the star dictates — choose to go, or choose to die.
Groundhogs, on the move, in December . . .