The Night I Saw Santa Claus

I have seen Santa. The real McClaus. It’s simply one of the facts of my childhood, along with falling off that slide in Kansas, having a Boston terrier named Beauregard, and winning the fire prevention poster contest in Mrs. Easterling’s first-grade class.

People normally smile or give me a sidelong yeah-right eyeroll when I tell them this. Then the awkwardness sets in as they realize my expression hasn’t changed and that I am, in fact, completely serious. Perhaps that’s you right now.

It happened in Alaska, which seems fitting, given its proximity to the North Pole. When I was six years old, we were stationed at Fort Richardson, the army base just outside of Anchorage. It was a magical land where day and night traded places throughout the year and moose ambled down from the mountains during the winter to stare at you through your dining room window on taco night.

I was a smart kid and not especially gullible. I had seen the helicopter land at the base PX the week before Christmas and recognized that the red-suited man who jumped out was not actually Santa (or, at best, a low-level deputy Santa). Similarly, on Christmas Eve, when our doorbell rang and “Santa”—who was working the whole neighborhood—came in to give us candy, get a cup of cheer, and talk military business with Dad, I immediately saw his darker whiskers under the loose-fitting white beard. I was not fooled.

It’s not that I was skeptical of Santa, mind you. Perhaps it was because I was so passionately on board with the program that I could easily recognize a phony.

Awhile after #FakeSanta left on that Christmas Eve, it was time for bed. My older brother, Rick, and I shared a room in the basement of our government-issue housing unit. I climbed into my lower bunk (Rick got the upper one by virtue of seniority) and managed to calm my excitement enough to fall asleep. However, at some point in the middle of the night, my eyes opened. As I groggily came to, the significance of the opportunity before me presented itself.

My first thought was, “I wonder if Santa has come yet???” Then my eyes widened: “I wonder if he’s STILL here?!?” And that idea gave way to the most tantalizing possibility of all: “I WONDER IF HE’S STILL HERE AND HIS SLEIGH AND REINDEER ARE PARKED BEHIND THE HOUSE RIGHT NOW?!?!?!?”

I couldn’t stand it–I had to check. I slipped out of my bunk and scooted across the floor to the fire escape ladder that led to the window. From inside the room, the window sat up near the ceiling; however, because we were in the basement, it looked out into the backyard at ground-level. I gingerly climbed the rungs, breathless with excitement.

I reached the top and peered through the frosty pane. And there, directly behind the house, lit up by the moonlight’s reflection off the snow, was . . . nothing. The field that ran from the back of the house to the distant woods was empty: no sleigh, no Rudolph, no Santa. I sighed.

AND THAT’S WHEN IT HAPPENED. At that precise moment, Santa walked around the corner of our house, right in front of the window. The real McClaus: red suit, rosy cheeks, white hair and beard, twinkling eyes, and all. (Also, if anyone asks, Santa does not wear black gloves.  Rather, red-and-white-striped knit mittens.) He seemed to be on his way somewhere, but suddenly he stopped short and turned toward my astonished little face in the dark window. He smiled at me kindly, leaned down, and tapped on the glass. And then he straightened up, waved, and continued on his way.

About to burst with excitement, I scurried down the ladder and flew up the stairs, where I was clobbered by the sight of piles of presents, bulging stockings, and a BRAND NEW COLOR TV sitting under the tree.  I raced back down and woke up Rick, and we felt it imperative to immediately alert the rest of the family. Christmas came early that day.

When I die, this will be one of the questions on my shortlist for the Big Whom/Whatever (you know, along with the one about The Meaning of Life): “So, what was that Santa sighting about?” I suspect that both questions might have similar answers.

At any rate, I find myself here 50 years later, still wide-eyed, still believing this preposterous story. In fact, one gift the experience has given me over the decades has been precisely a sense of wonder and the ability to willingly suspend disbelief.

I figure that believing in Santa is the least I can do. Because there’s a way in which, through this experience (and other similar ones), I’ve long felt as if Someone out there was telling me, “Hey, I believe in you. As proof, here, take this little piece of magic. It will be our special secret.” So, I guess the title of this post only tells half the story.  Because, yes, I saw Santa Claus. But, perhaps even more importantly, he saw me.

Stay Open and Look for Your People

A couple of years ago, on my way back to New Orleans after a wearying business trip to Raleigh, our plane arrived late in Baltimore and I missed the connection. There was nothing to be done: we were marooned at BWI. I joined the line of The Stranded to get meal and hotel vouchers and exchanged sympathetic glances with the friendly couple in front of me. It was a husband and wife on their first trip to the Big Easy—sans kids.

That, it turned out, was the beginning of a lovely friendship. There was a certain mischief in their eyes that I recognized immediately. We joked our way through dinner and talked on the shuttle ride to and from the hotel, hung out in the terminal the next morning, and sat in the same row on the plane. (I got on first and saved seats for them. I was *that guy* you hate on Southwest flights.) 

By the time we landed, we were fast friends. I drove them to their hotel, and the next day my partner and I met them in NOLA for a day of revelry and adventures. I was so impressed (and, frankly, inspired) by how easy they were to be around and how up-for-anything they were. 

They finally returned to New Orleans this past weekend, and we picked right back up without missing a beat. The conversation flowed easily--from jazz bands and drag queens and beer and bourbon to tender farewells and deep grief for lost loved ones. 

That night in Baltimore, I missed one connection and made a better one. At the outset, it might have been easy to retreat into annoyance and throw the whole layover into the travel-pain-in-the-ass drawer. As a blackbelt introvert by training, withdrawal has long been one of my go-to strategies. Through time, attention, and self-compassion, I've been working on that.

So here's where I get all Pollyanna on your ass, because it turns out Pollyanna knows a thing or two. We just never can predict where our next awesome experience or wonderful friendship is going to come from. But there’s one place we can *always* look: Right. Here. Right. Now.

So, be open to possibility. Yes, even in this slow-moving airport, supermarket, post office, or (gasp!) DMV line. That person in front of you just might have the second half of an incantation you've been trying to remember. And there is powerful enchantment to be unleashed when magic folk join forces. 

Laugh Your Way to Stillness

"Comedy is serious business." A much-loved teacher of mine, Louise Cowan, was fond of saying that. For her, comedy as a literary genre (distinct from lyric poetry, tragedy, and epic) was a rough-and-tumble imaginative terrain of grace, redemption, regeneration, and hopefulness.

I think the same can be true for laughter in our lives. A good belly laugh can quiet the voices of our demons. It can be a sudden shaft of sunlight through the storm clouds, a breach in a foreboding thoughtwall, and an infusion of new buoyant energy into a downward spiraling system. It’s a reassertion of hopefulness—an implicit metaphysical assertion that there’s Something Out There worth smiling about. 

It’s the banana peel that sends the joyless drill sergeant in our despairing death march spinning and sliding across the floor in befuddlement. 

Laughter is also cathartic—a way of releasing repressed energy/emotion/fear stuck in our systems. There’s a meditation designed by Osho (who was both an extremely wise and super problematic guru) called “The Mystic Rose.” It involves laughing hysterically for a certain amount of time, followed by heart-rending crying for the same amount of time. If you’ve ever done it, you've quickly realized that deep, soulful laughing and lamentation are very close neighbors.

And then the third part of The Mystic Rose, after you’ve laughed and cried, is to sit in silence. Osho believed that we Westerners, with our busy minds, had to travel first through the valleys of noisy laughter and tears before we could land in stillness.

During this holiday period, if you find yourself stuck in a dark storyline, invite some laughter into your life. Far from frivolous, it may actually be a stepping stone to an elusive inner quiet. It can be, as Louise noted about comedy, delightfully serious business.

Just B R E A T H E

Not long ago, on my Facebook page, I suggested that you find some "magic"—a touchstone or other symbolic / talismanic object to tuck into your pocket or purse. (You can see that original post here.) However, there’s one talisman that you’ve *always* got with you, and that’s your breath. 

Breathing is an amazing process that is at once deeply internal and also in exquisite, dynamic relationship with our external environment. We spend most of our time completely unaware of it, and yet if we stop doing it for even a few minutes, our physical organism goes into critical distress and can cease functioning.

Now, I’m not a yogi or a regular meditator. I don’t have a special breathing pattern or practice to pass along, besides this very simple instruction: notice it. Just notice it. When your mind starts to spin, take a moment and become aware of your breath. 

Your breathing pattern at any particular moment is intricately tied to what’s happening inside of you, and you can’t become aware of your breath without slowing down and tuning in.

Once you have the rhythm, then look for the feeling/mood behind it. And do some gentle inquiry around it. I guarantee that you will become more centered and still in the process.

Hit the Self-Compassion Reset Button

Everyone hurts. Everyone feels like shit at some point or another. Including coaches. 

In addition to love and light and fuzzy warm feelings, the holidays offer us plenty of opportunities for beating ourselves up—for jumping on the judgment train or sliding down the shame spiral.

I found myself in one of those the other day. I was walking through a crowded marketplace/food court in Los Angeles, trying to find breakfast before settling down to do some work. It was BUSTLING—one of those places where you couldn’t stand anywhere without jostling or getting jostled by someone else. 

And something felt “off.” That is, *I* felt off. I started feeling profoundly uncomfortable and I just wanted to get out of there. As. Fast. As. Possible. And then I started judging myself for that. The shame pistol fired and my mind was off to the races.

Ironically, my goal that morning was to write a post about stillness. And awareness of that fact just made it worse. "SERIOUSLY? What’s going on here? I’m a coach, for-crying-out-loud. WTF." The dark messages and judgments started to pile up.

And then, fortunately, I remembered to pump the brakes. WHOOOA. Where was the compassion—the same attitude I hold my clients in? I reminded myself that my own mess can be just as messy as everyone else’s. It’s not like there’s an approved/sanitized/more aesthetic version of imperfection that is appropriate for me. 

So I got to look at my own motley pile of stuff and say, “Yes. This, too. This is not beyond the reach of compassion. This is *precisely* what compassion was made for.” 

I found a quiet coffee shop. I punted the writing assignment, because the task in front of me seemed much more pressing. And then I was able to sit with myself, start some gentle inquiry, and begin untangling some of the messages beneath my discomfort. I let my mind have its say and I met it at every turn with compassion. And it grew more quiet.

On the way back to the apartment, I deliberately retraced my steps through that same market and had a very different experience. It turns out, the problem wasn’t that the marketplace was too crowded—my head was. 

Sometimes, you will be messy. You will be imperfect. You will fall short of your hopes/expectations. You will judge the shit out of yourself. And I hope you will meet yourself with that very love and compassion that is supposed to be a hallmark of this season.