The fact is, we need markers in life, whether we subscribe to a

Host: The morning was pale and cold, a thin mist curling along the cobblestone street outside a small bookshop café. The window glass was fogged, etched with fingerprints from countless dreamers who had pressed their faces against it, staring at the rows of books inside. A faint carol drifted from an old radio, and the smell of cinnamon and coffee hung like a memory in the air.

It was a week before Christmas, though the city felt too tired to notice.

At a corner table, Jack sat — tall, lean, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug, his eyes gray and distant. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her hair falling over her shoulders, her eyes warm and searching. Between them sat an old newspaper, folded open to a quote printed in the literary column:

“The fact is, we need markers in life, whether we subscribe to a religion or not. And the major holidays, such as Christmas, serve to remind us of the turning world.” — Jay Parini

Jeeny traced the line with her finger, smiling softly.

Jeeny: “Beautiful, isn’t it? The idea that even in our chaos, we need moments to stop — to remember that the world turns, that time still breathes.”

Jack: “Beautiful maybe. But also naive.”

Host: His voice was low, edged with that familiar cynicism that lived in his chest like a slow fire. The rain outside had begun to fall again, light and rhythmic, like a metronome to his disbelief.

Jack: “People don’t need markers, Jeeny. They need survival. They cling to holidays because they’re told to — not because they actually feel anything sacred. Christmas, Eid, Hanukkah… half the time it’s an excuse for sales or guilt.”

Jeeny: “And yet they still gather. Still light candles, hang lights, cook meals, give gifts. Even when the meaning is half-forgotten, the gesture remains. Don’t you think that says something?”

Host: The lights from the café’s tree shimmered faintly in the window reflection — reds, greens, and golds mixing with the gray of the street outside.

Jack: “It says people love routines. That they need the illusion of continuity. We mark time so it doesn’t feel like it’s running over us. But it still does.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s forgotten what it means to celebrate.”

Jack: “I remember what it used to mean. Before it turned into plastic. Before everything was wrapped in a marketing slogan and called tradition.”

Jeeny: “Tradition changes, Jack. It’s not about the wrapping paper. It’s about the pulse beneath it — the reminder that even as the earth spins, we can still stop and share a moment that feels eternal.”

Host: She leaned closer, her voice steady, her words soft but bright, like the flame of a candle in a draft.

Jack: “Eternal? Jeeny, look around. Half these people are checking their phones between sips of cocoa. They’re not thinking about eternity. They’re thinking about sales, or their next flight, or how to escape their family dinners.”

Jeeny: “And yet… they showed up. That’s something. Even when they don’t believe, they still gather — around tables, around trees, around something greater than themselves. Isn’t that what Parini meant? That we need markers not for belief, but for belonging?”

Host: A small child ran past their table, laughing, a red scarf trailing behind like a flicker of joy. Jack watched him for a moment, his expression softening despite himself.

Jack: “You think belonging is enough to give meaning?”

Jeeny: “I think meaning is born in belonging. Every culture, every faith, even every philosophy — they all draw a circle around time, name it sacred, and remind us we’re still here. The winter solstice, the harvest moon, Ramadan, Diwali — all different, but all saying the same thing: we’ve made it another turn around the sun.”

Jack: “And if we stopped marking those turns?”

Jeeny: “We’d forget how to notice them.”

Host: The clock behind the counter ticked once, twice — steady, indifferent. The barista wiped the counter clean, humming softly. The air between them thickened — not with anger, but with the gravity of reflection.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m too jaded. It’s just — sometimes I wonder if we invent these rituals to hide from the truth. To avoid facing the void that waits between them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we do. But that’s the beauty of it. The void is vast — rituals give it a shape. A reason to move forward. They don’t erase the darkness, Jack. They just remind us to light something in it.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air like the scent of pine and cinnamon. Jack didn’t reply immediately. He reached for his mug, then set it down again, staring into the dark coffee as though it held a reflection of the sky itself.

Jack: “You talk like you still believe in magic.”

Jeeny: “I believe in rhythm. And rhythm is magic, in its own way. Every sunrise, every season, every heart that beats. Even science calls it cycles — nature’s way of remembering itself.”

Jack: “Cycles don’t care about us, Jeeny. The sun rises whether we pray or not.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But we care about it. That’s the point. We need to make meaning of its rising. Otherwise, what’s the difference between living and existing?”

Host: The light through the fogged window began to shift — the clouds thinning just enough for a pale sunbeam to break through, touching the rim of Jeeny’s cup.

Jack’s gaze followed it, quiet, uncertain.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mother used to make us all gather for Christmas Eve dinner. Not because she believed in God, but because her mother had done it. Even when we were broke, she’d light a small candle and say, ‘This flame means we made it another year.’”

Jeeny: “That’s it, Jack. That’s your marker. That’s what Parini’s talking about — that small act of remembrance that ties one turning world to another.”

Jack: “I thought it was just habit.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it was. But sometimes habit is sacred. It’s how love survives time.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped. The streetlights flickered off one by one as the morning grew brighter. Inside, the café seemed to breathe again — the murmur of voices, the clink of spoons, the sound of the world waking up.

Jack smiled faintly, almost to himself.

Jack: “You ever think maybe that’s what religion was trying to teach us before we complicated it — that to mark time is to thank it?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about rules or rituals. It’s about awareness. To pause, to look around, to whisper: we are still here.”

Host: For a long moment, they sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t empty but full — full of everything unsaid and everything felt.

Jack reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. He opened his calendar, scrolled through the months filled with meetings and reminders, then paused on December 25th. He stared at it, then closed the phone with a quiet nod.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll light a candle this year. Not for God. For time.”

Jeeny smiled, her eyes soft as morning light.

Jeeny: “Then you’ll be doing exactly what the world’s been doing since it learned to turn.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two of them by the window, surrounded by the faint hum of life and the slow dance of light and shadow. Outside, the city stirred, the sky opening a little more with each passing second.

The world kept turning. But inside that small café, for a brief and luminous moment, it felt like it had paused — not to stop time, but to honor it.

And in that pause lay the quiet truth Jay Parini had written: that even in the absence of faith, we still need markers, not to remind us that life is short, but that it still continues — and that we are part of its beautiful, turning world.