Maybe (Maybe Not) by Robert Fulghum Read Free Book Online

crisis.
    At about the same time, we both realized we are just not into doing the Christmas thing this year—at least not in the usual way. It’s not that we’ve become Scroogish about the season—it’s that we don’t want to become Scroogish.
    We are still influenced by the memory of being in New Mexico for part of the holiday season last year. We passed through the manic little tourist town of Taos, which was geared up for the maximum level of kitschy consumerism, and drove farther on up the road to the Taos Indian pueblo.
    Peace and quiet reigned there. The time from December 15 to January 15 is observed as “The time of being still.” The pueblo is closed to tourists and all commercial activity for a month. To us it felt like the little town of Bethlehem must have been a long time ago.
    And so, in the sensible spirit of our Indian cousins, we intend being still this year. We’re not going shopping.The money we might have spent can go to some other good cause. Take the time you might have spent shopping for us and be still a little yourself. Think of us, who wish you quiet joy this Christmas. God rest you, merry gentlemen, and gentlewomen, too—God rest you.
    In late December, my wife and I went off to Utah for a time—just the two of us. On Christmas Eve we chopped up the trunk of last year’s tree and built a fire to sit by while we ate homemade bread and chili. We took a long walk up the valley in the snow.
    We came upon a midnight clear.
    The silent stars went by.
    The world in solemn stillness lay.
    And when the angels sang, we were there to hear them.

T hat experiment in Christmas damage control has continued and expanded.
    Since Christmas went so well, I explained to my family and friends that I would like to try treating other official occasions in a similar way. I asked them to forgive me my obligations for birthdays or anniversaries for a while. And I would do the same for them—no expectations.
    I wanted to be free of dates. How would it be, I wondered, to celebrate the seasons of the heart as opportunities, not obligations? I promised to keep them in the forefront of my thinking—all those whom I love and cherish. I promised to pay attention to them and give to them when they most need something but least expect it. To let gifts and favors and affirmations come, from me, as a surprise.
    How’s it going? As I write, it’s February, and I’m thirteen months into the trial. It hasn’t been easy. It means getting funny looks when official dates are imminent. It takes extra effort, but the effort so far is pleasure, not hassle. Friends and family seem to like knowing I’m thinking about them, but it’s hard to tell enthusiasm from friendly toleration sometimes. Only my five-year-old granddaughter has actually complained. She would like to be surprised a little more regularly.
    I don’t know what my friends and family really think about this experiment in gift-giving. They don’t say, and I haven’t asked. They are all ahead in actual loot, if one looks at this deal from a strict accounting point of view. But that’s not the point.
    The heart will turn to a prune if love is always by the numbers.
    How will you know someone really loves you if they only meet your expectations and not your needs?

A man and woman I know fell into BIG LOVE somewhat later in life than usual. She was forty. He was fifty. Neither had been married before. But they knew about marriage. They had seen the realities of that sacred state up close among their friends. They determined to overcome as many potential difficulties as possible by working things out in advance.
    Prenuptial agreements over money and property were prepared by lawyers. Preemptive counseling over perceived tensions was provided by a psychologist, who helped them commit all practical promises to paper, with full reciprocal tolerance for irrational idiosyncrasies.
    “Get married once, do it right, and live at least agreeably, if not happily, ever