Can one at all write about it? Have not everything to jubilate, when the feast of the feasts, when the arrival of the Messiah is just around the corner? 30 years later he will put this in a claim, by moving like a king on a donkey with a Don-Quichote-like attitude to Jerusalem. But we are not there yet. The child. Helpless on mother’s breast, crying, extradited to the humans. In swaddling clothes. Science says, an infant would have fantasies of omnipotence, would believe himself as the center of the universe. With him it would actually be right!
Today I was at the Christmas market on the Neumarkt. A beautiful Christmas market in the style of the Twenties. A life-size manger, fenced, their life-size figures were made of papier mache. Many poses for photographs in front of it. “Do not feed!” hangs at the fence. Somehow they try to be funny these days. Anything else but raising religious feelings.
It seems to me that I would try to write these royal days – Christmas! – nice to me. That’s it: Christmas! Feast of the feasts, cause of causeless joy. But it is different. I talk to a lot of people, to whom it is the same. For me the manger is broken down like a house of cards. To much that calls itself life separates me from the Christmas feeling of my childhood.
It’s nothing new to me, that in the time before Christmas I go like an old man through the days, paralyzed by something, what I cannot describe in more details – and here I don’t want. Like a shadow of emotions, which makes me more vulnerable than usual. That aren’t specifically backwards thoughts, which bathe in the sun of the past. It’s like the feeling as somebody would stand behind you. You turn around and there is nobody. Phantom pain.
But then, I hope it will be the same this year like in the years before, either by a text which I write by myself or by a short moment, which comes out of the blue sky on the holidays, my heart opens up. I become touched inside and Christmas makes sense to me.