The paradox of Christmas

Our own nativity scene.  I know, it sort of makes a double layer with the one above, but that doesn't bother me.

...there really is a difference between being brought up as a Christian and being brought up [in any other faith].  The difference is that every Catholic child has learned form pictures, and...every Protestant child from stories, this incredible combination of contrasted ideas as one of the very first impressions on his mind.  It is not merely a theological difference.  It is a psychological difference which can outlast any theologies...Any agnostic or atheist whose childhood has known a real Christmas has ever afterwards, whether he likes it or not, an association in his mind between two ideas that most of mankind must regard as remote from each other; the idea of a baby and the idea of unknown strength that sustains the stars.  His instincts and imagination can still connect them, when his reason can no longer see the need of the connection; for him there will always be some savour of religion about the mere picture of a mother and a baby; some hint of mercy and softening about the mere mention of the dreadful name of God.  

--C.K. Chesterton, The Everlasting Man

I never can resist reading at least a little Chesterton at Christmastime. This morning I read it aloud to C.Z. while I was sitting in our favorite bottle green chair--the one with the ottoman, of course.  She was rolled up tightly in a blue blanket on the sofa, looking like some kind of toppled advent candle. She likes to wake up slowly.

We slept with the windows wide open last night. Yesterday had been particularly warm, and besides, our carbon monoxide detector went off, so we wanted to make sure we had enough air. This morning I awoke to the sudden sound of wind and sleet hitting the screens and air-conditioning units.  I was happy to be under the covers, but eventually curiosity got the better of me. I got up, looked for my other slipper, gave up and put on some old socks, and went into the living room. There it felt outsidish, as though I were in a camp shelter, with all that rain and wind and gaping openness, but I was glad to be there. I got the gaps under control, turned on only the small lamps and tree lights, and got to fixing breakfast in the almost dark.  

After Bob had eaten breakfast, C.Z. woke up, and I had a second cup of coffee while sitting in the green chair and reading Chesterton.  On the radiator were a bowl of clementines (those small oranges that New Yorkers tend to buy at Christmas) left over from a gathering yesterday, and a huge pine bough that we'd serendipitously found a couple of days ago below a freshly pruned tree in the park.  The pine bough looks kind of ridiculous there, sprawling off the narrow white radiator cover and overlooking a relentlessly grey and urban scene below. I like how ridiculous it looks.  I like the Chestertonian sense of contrast, and all the half-forgotten emotions that a paradox, whether pine bough next to grafitti, or God as a baby, can dredge up.

Looks like we're finally going to the museum today--hooray!  With three parties this week, my mother-in-law coming up on Friday, an orchestra performance this weekend, and us leaving for Georgia on Monday, I don't know whether I'll post again before the New Year or not.  If not, Merry Christmas!  I've enjoyed the increased sense of camaraderie and friendship from blogging this year.  Thanks for your comments, but thanks even more for your own blogs.  If we read to know we are not alone, blogs can make us feel that we can poke our heads into doors all over the world and say "hello."  Now...if only we could somehow eat the food there, too!