A Walk through Santa's Garden

When I was a child, my mother used to take me up to London for a Christmas treat. We’d take the express train from Brighton and then transfer to the underground with its then Victorian lighting and massively deep moving staircases. It was all magical to me. But nothing was so magical as seeing Santa Claus at Harrods.

Santa was always found at the end of some magic garden full of bright colored, fantastical flowers, twinkling lights, revolving figures, and dancing animals. I was fascinated. I’d want to stop and look but usually couldn’t because there were other people in line behind me. At the end, Santa would hand me some small package and wish us Merry Christmas. By then I’d grown used to this world of fantasy. But we’d be ushered past an exit sign and out into an undecorated corridor. That was a shock even though I knew it was coming. I remember feeling that we had been suddenly dumped backed into the real word. That feeling of loss was emphasized when we walked past the line of children still waiting to get in.

It was strange to me as a child—this contrast between illusion and reality—and it is still is. I remember enough about Santa’s Garden to recognize the feeling. I’ve felt it when I’ve watched my loved ones retire from work. One day they are professionally capable and productive, then they retire, and the next day their former colleagues are too busy to have a cup of coffee with them. Life has moved on to next people in the queue.

I’m reminded here of Shakespeare’s comment on this very topic in King Lear, his play about aging, power, and illusion. “A dog,” he said,” is obeyed in office.” In other words, chain a dog in front of a door and no one will enter. Let it be found running loose in the street and it is a different matter. Shakespeare understood the shock of being out of office and confusing the position with the individual holding it. I pointed this out to my London cousin who is thinking of early retirement. I told him to have an exit strategy for the corridor outside.

I’ve been thinking lately about the final exit door. I wouldn’t want to be around someone who does not think about an exit strategy. But it’s hard to prepare when you don’t know what’s out there waiting in the corridor. People who have peeped through the door tell us that they see loved ones and even beloved pets. The one time I was around death as a child and heard strange things, I was convinced that “they” had come from the old gentleman who was dying. At the same time, I don’t want to be around someone who tells me what to think. And that includes the structured teachings about the next life that are so often forced on us as children. This is the final mystery of our lives—and we walk alone through that door between illusion and reality.