The Burden of Abundance

Earlier today I was reading a social network post from a food celebrity that began with these words:  "A time of year full of decadence and delight..."

Ok, so I have nothing against delight - it rocks.  To me, delight is kind of a surprising, sudden, breath-taking burst of rapture (occasionally accompanied by squeals and/or hopping).  What's not to love about that?  But the word 'decadence' has gotten stuck in my craw and I can't shake it.  Here is the definition from dictionary.com:

dec·a·dence  noun
1.  the act or process of falling into an inferior condition or state; deterioration; decay
2.  moral degeneration or decay; turpitude
3.  unrestrained or excessive self-indulgence

Now, I'm sure that she didn't mean it in a bad way.  I'm sure she was trying to reflect the fun, over-the-top richness that generally marks the celebration of the holiday season.  The groaning sideboards, generous piles of gifts, lavish parties, opulent decorations coalesce into what seems to be the perfect Christmas.

I'm not decrying these traditions.  And I'm not going to sit here and tell you not to enjoy the time of year, or be so bold as to assume that I need to raise your awareness of the needs in our community and the true meaning of Christmas.  I just want to state the other obvious truth:  that you don't need all of this to experience joy.  I don't know that I really believed that until I started this exercise and assessed my life and how much I really have.  Or how much it weighs me down, like Marley's chains and cash-boxes.

`Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,' said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe,' but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw.'

`It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,' was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. `Look here.'

From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.

`Oh, Man. look here. Look, look, down here.' exclaimed the Ghost.

They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.

`Spirit, are they yours.' Scrooge could say no more.

`They are Man's,' said the Spirit, looking down upon them. `And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it.' cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. `Slander those who tell it ye. Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse. And abide the end.'

`Have they no refuge or resource?' cried Scrooge.

`Are there no prisons?' said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. `Are there no workhouses?' The bell struck twelve.