There were times when I disliked the pre-Christmas selling hype that starts here, in Poland, in early November and in Britain sometime in late July. I'm afraid I believed then more in 'Be orthodox and consistent - and do what you like!' than in the original Augustinian 'Love and do what you like!'
So I looked down – something so foreign to me now – on the impudent marketing chutzpah ruthlessly taking commercial advantage of that innocent Christian day. „You impudent, irreligious bastards!” I thought, „How dare you piggy-ride all the way to the bank on the back of such a day? Of which you, greedy pagans, understand next to nothing!”
Now I take it easy. And actually, I have grown to appreciate that mad, shallow run-up to Christmas, because of one fundamental(ist) reason: what if I go to Hell, as I'm likely to?
Then, the Christmases I have enjoyed here and everything to do with them – the port, the spirit, the carols, the love, the understanding, the peace (funny, yeah?) will be all I'll have to cling to for the rest of eternity...
Maybe thousands of years from now all I'll be able to do is point before the Devil to my impressive collection of top-notch sins (I won't go into details, but believe me, in Hell people would look up to me! You'll find out one day, anyway), numerous blasphemous jokes (one involving ”... I thought I could”) and a smelly medley of ugly odds and ends.
And then, sharing with him the credit for all of them, I'll beg to allow me to go with a bunch of mates to a far corner of Hell and there, by the wall separating us from the Other Place, gather around a single log of wood. And by its dim light, in a barely audible way – no proper singing or, the Other Place forbid!, words allowed – murmur some .... we can't use that name, either.
So we trek for days, reach the wall and light a smallest possible fire. It can do nothing to dispel the feel of a cold, dark, empty room, next door to - but completely cut off from - a joyous, noisy one, in which there may be some of those that used to be dearest to us. From there, muffled merry noisemaking reaches us ... - and pierces our souls.
One of us starts moving his lips and – out of fright – is so quiet that no sound at all issues from his mouth. The others join in and so we sit, looking at the tiny flickering light, moving our mouths in silence trying not to hear the delicate echoes of the singing from behind the impenetrable wall*. Tears are rolling down our cheeks and suddenly someone loses grip over their voice cords and blurts out in an uncontrollable sob: 'NA LIRZE' ...
- at which the whole Hell freezes.
We close our eyes and pray - who to? - that the coming shower of thunders will burn us to ashes, for ever.
But we know only too well that, as usual, they'll merely torture us – and not even hard enough at that to make us stop feeling the other pain
- that which matters.
*when I want to explain to small kids what Hell is like, I tell them to imagine they are there, in the cold and near complete darkness, the wrong side of the wall, their mommy and daddy across it, never to be hugged again... ah - and no presents!#
(picture: familylawcollaborativedivorce.co.uk)
