A Simple Gift

The old weaver sat in his rickety chair; his form bent more so now than it had been in his younger years. 

 

So much time he spent huddled over weathered parchment. He picked up his quill, allowing it to set into the curve in his finger it created. 

 

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, allowing the rich, worn leather to engulf his senses. 

 

Tuning in to the beat of his heart, his clear blue eyes began to see snow-topped mountains surrounded by cedar and pine trees. 

 

In the comfort of his cabin, he could look out the window and write the world as he wished. 

 

What would he wish for today? 

 

He peered to the mountain's peak and found a jolly old fellow being pulled in a sleigh. Blinking twice, he leaned in closer to the glass. 

 

He had not seen such a display since he was a child. 

 

He watched in awe as Santa crested the mountain. Instead of reindeer, wolves pulled the sled. 

 

The sleigh was different from what he remembered. The red was deeper, and he could see from a distance that the wood had been hand-carved. 

 

Santa drew nearer, never breaking eye contact with the weaver. He stood in place, afraid to move. Where could he go anyway?

 

Momentarily, the weaver lost sight of the sleigh. He moved from window to window as quickly as his wobbly legs would allow. 

 

He stopped suddenly when he heard bells jangling from just outside his front door. A knock sounded, followed by two more. 

 

He closed his eyes, gripping the brass knob, turning it until it made a sharp click. He opened the door, and beyond the frame stood a tall fellow dressed in fine leather brown boots and a deep red fur suit with a cap to match atop his head.

 

“It is quite cold out here if you could let me in…” Santa bristled, cheeks plump and rosy from the nip of the chill. 

 

Stunned, the weaver stepped aside, allowing Santa to enter. 

 

“A humble life you’ve made for yourself here.” Santa sat in a wooden chair near the crackling fire illuminating the hearth. 

 

The old man sat down next to him. They both sat quietly, watching the flames flicker and dance. 

 

“Are you happy, Weaver?” 

 

“I am content and grateful to have a roof over my head within a cabin I built with my own hands.” He lifted his hands, gazing at the aged skin and knobby bones. 

 

Santa leaned back, turning to face him. “There is value in being able to create for yourself. But are you happy?” 

 

He pondered the question, and then it dawned on him. “I’m not sure if I’ve known true happiness. I’ve had moments of it, but not longer than a few moments. Usually, when I’m struck with inspiration for a new tale or creation.” 

 

The weaver looked down at his holey, worn shoes and said softly, “I would like to experience what it is to be truly happy.” 

 

“Do you believe it is possible?” Santa asked. 

 

“I do,” said the Weaver. 

 

Santa reached into his pocket and pulled out a bundle of mistletoe held together by twine. 

 

Handing it to the Weaver, he said. “My gift to you is happiness in its most simple form. Hang this in the frame of your door.” 

 

He looked to Santa, cinching his brows. “How will this bring me happiness?” He gestured around the room. “Isn’t my life already simple?”

 

Santa was quiet for a moment, then said gently. “Life is as simple as you want it to be. With no expectations, we can find happiness in the present.

 

Sometimes simplicity is the greatest gift of all.”