In my life of thirty-odd years, I've spent Christmas away from home only twice. The first time was in 1998. In August that year I had started grad school in the US. I was on a scholarship that, for the sake of deepest cultural immersion, strongly discouraged traveling home before the two semesters were over. For the break, I rented a golden convertible and cruised up and down the southern Californian coast with a couple from the French overseas department of La Réunion. It didn't feel like Christmas for one moment. Though my parents sent me a couple of parcels with seasonal delicacies and I sent a parcel back from Utah, the sacred connection was broken.
The second Christmas away came during my last year in the US, at a time that was filled with interviews, conferences and trips, and too much time away already. I had gone to Europe the summer before and I planned on going again the following summer and then leaving the US for good. I couldn't justify spending the money – and I wanted the deep cultural immersion that I had studiously avoided thus far. I was not alone, but Christmas somehow managed to feel lonely anyway.
I've always maintained that for me, Christmas is above all family. By chance I realized on my way from London to Dresden that this is only part of it, one aspect of a more sweeping definition of the holiday. I had to change planes in Frankfurt. Nothing good can be said about this airport – it's truly as bad as they get, unfriendly, inefficient and slow – except the shelves with free papers that Lufthansa keeps generously stocked for their customers. In a reflex from times long gone, when I was still a regular train rider, I grabbed a Zeit, a broadsheet weekly that unfolds large like a living-room carpet. It's utterly unsuitable for economy class; it almost needs its own airspace. But it comes with a handy magazine of just the right size and format for the forty-five minute hop to Dresden, and the title story was quite fitting.
In a fine example of pointless philosophizing, the magazine presented forty questions dealing with the meaning and significance of Christmas but also etiquette. Most answers were provided by the magazine's editors and writers, but some came from external experts of various qualifications. The approach was light-hearted and somewhat self-deprecating, with humorous (but beautiful) illustrations illustrating some of the dilemmas. I got the feeling that the magazine thought if you need to ask these questions, you're beyond help, but it won't hurt answering them anyway.
And maybe something can even be gained. Though its current manifestation owes much to pagan and lateral cultural influences, Christmas is a Christian holiday at heart. This is often ignored, in Germany not any less than anywhere else. But Germany is a country based on Judeo-Christian values, that mentions God in the preamble of its constitution and is (currently) run by a Christian party (in coalition). It is fair to ask if there's anything Christian left in Christmas.
After going through the forty questions and answers and interpreting them in line with my own ideas, I've come to the conclusion that there isn't. Christmas is the strongest and longest-lasting tradition that glues us together as people. It is a pillar in the calendar, more significant as a point of orientation than the seasons because the seasons vary from year to year but Christmas is always Christmas. And it stands strong without religion.
Religion itself is nothing but rituals and traditions, a cultural convention upheld by certain groups through the centuries. I don't need that for Christmas. I don't celebrate the birth of Christ, I celebrate Christmas. Doing so doesn't empty the holiday of its meaning, it purifies it. It's pure ritual unadulterated by religion and unburdened by the presence of an imaginary being. Christmas is big enough without them.
Christmas is rituals that are set in stone for all eternity. Nothing is supposed to change. I don't like my mom’s questions of what I'd like to eat, do, get. It was always her responsibility to sort these things out, and in my mind this is how it should stay in all eternity. I don't want to get creative. All I want is arrive at home and do things as they've always been done.
The face of Christmas must be boring. I don't think an exciting holiday would cut it. I live in a world of constant excitement, unpredictability and change. The only thing that stays the same is Christmas, recurring every year with perfect monotony. Christmas is my oasis of calm, filled with the expected and the ordinary. I enjoy it tremendously. I open the door, drop my bag next to the sofa, hug my mom and leave the world to its own devices. For a week, nothing happens.
To devout Christians, Christmas is a time of miracles. I don't believe. If I ever did, I stopped long ago. But when I go to church on Christmas Eve – a family tradition that I don't want to miss – a miracle occurs, with unfailing regularity as if God had a hand in it. As I sit down in the uncomfortable wooden pew, as the church bells start ringing and then the organ playing the first hymn, time slows down and eventually halts. Frantic Advent, so full of work, parties and shopping, comes to an end and hands over to Christmastime, when time stands still. After church, imbued with the festive spirit, we walk home through fresh snow and the universe ceases to exist.
We sit down underneath the Christmas tree (which has in recent years unfortunately shrunk to a bunch of spruce boughs), light the candles, share gifts, eat and play. There is no TV, no radio, no telephone calls or internet, no visits of friends. The world is positively unhinged for a few days, no matter what happens out there. It has always been that way and, if I'm to ask, it always will. And no matter where I am in the world, I'll try my hardest to make it home.
1 comment:
I really like this :)
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