Taking down the crib today. It's another of those small, sweet, unexpected brushes with mystery. In the secular world Christmas is a feast of memory. We are forever trying to recapture the wonder of the child's Christmas morning, and so it becomes a little sadder each year, a little more frenzied. Only by celebrating the religious significance, which is one of ultimate generosity, can we truly relive that moment of bliss, long ago, when we realised, 'hey, there's a day in the year when we get what we wish for', and even if what we got was not what we wished for, well, ... it was. A day of perfection, that's how I remember it. But then, even while still a child, I started on the road of reenactment in the hope of a re-experience. And the day was a little less perfect every time it came round. Do'n't tell me you live it again through your children: that's a whole different set of experiences. A feast of memory - the memories of what we once had, and the whole phenomenon of memory itself. I think it's perfectly lovely though utterly imperfect. Only since coming to an understanding of just what the crib means do I 'get it' again, that great buzz: 'hey, there's a day in the year when we remember how we got everything we could ever wish for.'
And so we lay away the figures for next Christmas. Go mbeirimid beo ar an am seo arís, le cúnamh Dé.