A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

“Can you forgive a pigheaded old fool for having no eyes to see with, nor ears to hear with all these years?”

                  I appreciate this chance to read the first edition version of this classic tale but I continue to favor the movie with Alastair Sim as the main character, Ebenezer Scrooge.   Although the book  is the original and premise of the movie, I cannot help but admire the way the story has developed and evolved over time into the delightful creation of 1951.  It is this story that brings tears to my eyes and a flood of empathy toward humanity every year at Christmastime or whenever I revisit these loveable characters created by Charles Dickens.

                   I read the book once and watched the movie twice over the past week and have come to a new realization, that in varying degrees,  a little bit of the specter of Scrooge exists in the life of every person.

                   During the growing up years, there is a childlike exhuberance and trusting nature that hums inside our youthful spirits.  We love, we laugh, we dream, we do, energetically, fully, and automatically.  We yearn for what is unreachable with the knowledge that someday we will scale that peak, achieve our goals, and  become who we were born to be.  Somewhere along the line as time passes, as love is lost, and disappointment wears us down, we change.  In seeking protection from pain, we  build barriers and become somewhat isolated in our own space.  We are distracted, become jaded, and steel against the next soul shattering blow.  We begin to turn inward, focusing on our own little lives of children and work.  We may neglect friendships, forget fun, ignore the very things that feed our souls.  The writer may cease to write, the artist stops painting, the nurturer stops nurturing, each becoming a little less human than before.  Ultimately, we may lose our sense of being a part of something larger than our own tiny corner.  A sense of community of belonging, of intermingling and interfering in the lives of our friends, acquaintences, with our fellow man is lost.   It is in this way that I believe each of us is infused with the evil spirit of Ebenezer Scrooge.  Is this middle age? 

                  Do we, like Scrooge, in old age, suddenly come to our senses and realize what is really important?  Do we, in the process of aging, return full circle  to the innocence of youth, that freedom of feeling, of expression, of living in sensation?  Is hope reborn?                Would this be the purpose of getting older, the culmination of a life lived long, fraught with mistakes, wrong turns, and regrets?  Does life imitate art?  If so, getting older and wiser seems like something  to look forward to with anticipation and not trepidation.  Then again...