The Handwriting of Santa

Prologuette

I stopped believing in Santa when I was six years old. Life had already begun to disappoint my expectations, so knowledge of this cultural illusion did little to dampen my already soaked spirits. The reason for the spirit-soakage: my parents, in a flash of traumatic brilliance, blindsided my six-year-old reality of familial life with a concept that created a fracture in a seemingly unbreakable bond. This concept has a name, and that name is DIVORCE. The result - as it relates to Santa, anyway - was that Santa would visit both mommy and daddy’s home on the same night. This idea was A-OK to my gift-receiving child brain, even if I didn’t fully understand what divorce implied. The rest of the traumatic rigmarole I compartmentalized into my deep subconscious as if I were choosing to bury a time capsule rigged with atomic explosives. What became interesting, however, was that I discovered Santa’s sophistry when I opened the gifts at my father’s house on Christmas morning. Whatever my powers of perception were at this young age proved adequate enough to notice that Santa’s handwriting had mysteriously changed into that of my father’s. Seeming to already grow used to disappointment, I shrugged nonchalantly to hide my frustration and began opening my presents.

Chapterette 1

There was no suicide note. Once I began to receive birthday cards from him the following year - my nineteenth birthday - I realized there was no suicide either. The birthday cards themselves appeared to be hand-crafted postcards made from pictures I assumed he took himself. Massive mountain ranges, crystal-clear lagoons, and snow-covered forests had my name and address written on the back. There was no return address and no other words of solace for me. I knew they were from him because the handwriting - Santa’s handwriting - was a perfect match for the emotional connection created by the observations of my six-year-old self. The relief at discovering he was still alive quickly turned to anger in light of his vanishing act. This anger, however, did not lead to my rejection of the gift, and for the next fifteen years I would place the arrival of my father’s postcard in an envelope with the rest of the beautiful photographs. Great was my surprise, anger, and fear when, on the sixteenth anniversary of my father’s disappearance, no postcard arrived in the mail.

Chapterette 2

Was there a pattern to the postcards? My confusion at being suddenly cut off from his presence - again - eventually evolved from anger to fear, fear to worry, and then worry to curiosity. Once the curiosity took hold I decided to review the contents of the envelope in hopes of finding some clues to his whereabouts. I arranged the postcards in chronological order on my kitchen counter and began to stare at the geographic presentation with as much intensity as I could muster. None of the photographs contained any signs of human civilization, nor was there any indicator of a business that may have printed these pictures. I spent the next few months examining, speculating, and memorizing every pixel on each of the postcards. As this study period wore on, more and more questions began to percolate in my inquisitive mind. I realized that the anger I had felt towards my father had begun to dissipate with each new glance at these glamorous landscapes, and an actual and visceral desire to be with my father began to surface in its stead. Who was this man? Would I ever hear from him again? Would I ever get to meet him?

Chapterette 3

I learned somewhere along the path of life that we are allowed to have anything we could ever want provided we don’t need it. Those months after the last postcard’s arrival created a deep-seated desire - nay, demand - that my questions be answered. By who, I couldn’t say. Nor did I care. I merely wanted them answered. I even checked the mailbox each day with a deep pang of hope that my birthday card had simply been delayed. Frustration compounded with each failed arrival until one day, in a rage, I tore the postcards to shreds. In that moment I acknowledged that I would never hear from him again and, more painfully, would never see him again either. I cried for hours at the boy-in-me so wounded in youth. I cried for all the subsequent anxiety, depression, and suicidal thoughts that blew forth in my early twenties from the time-capsule of repression buried during my pre-adolescence. I mourned the loss of life, love, and experience I could have shared with my father. Perhaps, had things not been what they were, I would not feel so hopeless and lost as a man in my early thirties. As if I was growing up in that precise moment, I came to the realization that I was on my own, that pining for a life that never was or will be had become a complete waste of time.

After such an intense emotional outburst I was feeling empty and hollow from deep inside, as if what lay underneath such woeful weeping was an emptiness bordering on my true self. Above all, I felt lost. The hope and anger that I had relied on for so long had suddenly vanished like an echo of my own father’s disappearance. What was I supposed to do now? How was I supposed to move forward? As if being answered by the universe itself, my helpless reverie was interrupted by a knock at my door.

Chapterette 4

The mailman was late. He apologized for the delay but stated that he had missed the delivery earlier on his route and resolved to have the parcel find its way home before the day was out. Thanking him for his efforts, I looked down to review the small, brown package, and immediately noticed the return address, written in my father’s hand, stating that his residence was “The North Pole.” What the hell? Was this a joke? Still numb from my recent emotional expulsion, I made my way back to the kitchen counter like a zombie unsure how to consume his recently acquired brain-prize. Also like a zombie, I lifted the item to my mouth, tore open the package and spilled its contents onto the postcard shrapnel of my fatherly past.

Chapterette 5

Two items fell from the package: a check in my name for $20,000 and a little black book. Santa’s gift had arrived, I thought. I wasn’t sure what I meant by that, but in my post-emotional lucidity this observation seemed to make sense. The little black book turned out to be a diary or journal of sorts, clearly the property of my father’s. The book itself was modern, yet somehow antique. This professional captor of my father’s ideas had obviously seen its share of travels. A thin layer of fossilized dirt marbled the Italian leather cover while the worn corners held their integrity even after suffering the consequences of gravity’s agenda. I felt a type of power was to be found from within these pages and couldn’t help but wonder if this was the naughty/nice list of Santa Claus himself. Suddenly ravenous for information, I opened the little black book to where the ribbon bookmark held the middle page and began to read:

Hello Son!

Sorry for the delay of your birthday gift but now is the time. Time for what, you ask? Well, I was hoping you’d like to take a trip. I feel that I am finally ready to be a father. Had I known what it meant to be a man before you were born I would have chosen to wait to have children, but such is the way of life.

I left after you turned eighteen so that one day we could get to know each other again. I was still very wounded from my own youth when you were born. I put all my hopes, expectations, fears and worries into you. This was horribly unfair of me. As a father, my duty was to guide you on your path as best I can. I realized that I was clueless to the success of this endeavor because I had never walked my own path. And so I did what I thought was best for everyone and left.

Was this the right choice? Probably not. But it is what I had chosen and, therefore, I must live with the consequences of my actions, one of which being that you may never wish to see me again. I would understand that choice. I am hoping that you are old enough and well enough to begin setting all that aside. I know this is a lot to ask.

I have included some money to get you started on a journey. My proposition is this: travel the world. See the sights I have shared with you in each of my postcards and, if you are ever ready, you may meet me where I now live. My path and journey has led me to North Pole, Alaska, where I work in a toy store dressed as Santa Claus. I have been practicing making the dreams of children come true so that, one day, I may do the same for you. Some of the details of my trip can be deduced from the first half of this journal. The second half is for you to chronicle your own travels. I hope your path leads you here.

With Love,

Dad

P.S. -51.252820, -72.356110 -> 45.363726, 5.793771 -> 64.750682, -147.344181

Epiloguette

Dear Diary,

I’m on a plane headed for Chile. The check for $20,000 proved almost exact in its ability to cover the necessary expenses of my journey. The post script of my father’s message turned out to be GPS coordinates for significant points on his travels, the first of which landed him - and now me - in Patagonia. After realizing what his birthday cards represented, I painstakingly taped all the pictures back together. I now keep these photographs tucked securely in a secret pocket inside the back cover of this little black book. Sure enough, after typing the coordinates into my computer, I was able to verify precisely where he had visited based on the photos he sent. The other two coordinates he provided refer to the Chartreuse Mountains of France and, of course, the North Pole itself. Granted, these are only three of the fifteen locations I have received. I imagine I will learn more about the others as I go but, then again, perhaps I won’t. Therein lies the adventure, no?

I know I am not ready to meet my father. I am not ready for this journey either. But if I were to spend my life waiting to be ready for the path of life I know that I would never start at all. There is still some frustration towards the man who brought me into this world, but I can feel a sunrise of understanding beginning to burn away the fog of anger that has clouded my vision for so long. Perhaps on the path I now follow I will find the necessary solace to approach my father with an open and unclouded mind. I think often of the boy so wounded by something so slight as a shift in the writing of Santa. That same handwriting has been my only connection to the man I now seek to discover who, beyond all possibility of belief, lives his life as Santa Claus himself.

The gifts of the universe are real. The idea that Santa is meant to provide mirror the very gifts so selflessly bestowed upon us all by the hand of the universe, whatever you make that to mean. We merely need to see past our own illusions to the truth that lies buried beneath our own judgments. The universe waits for us to begin walking the path destined for us. Have you discovered yours?