Everyday stories #6

Grain of wonder

It’s never a good time to be born

Mary and the angel browsed the world.

Do you think it is appropriate, to be born now? asked the little girl. It’s all so gray. These seem such strange days.

It’s never a good time to be born, answered the angel.

His wings were made of snow. Maria could crumble some of them, could taste.

They were elsewhere, suddenly. Maria had got used to these passages of time, of scenery, of wisdom.

They followed a thread of golden light. From a slow motion star they went down into a grotto. A donkey, an ox, a man. A woman. A baby belly.

It seemed to Maria that she had lived that instant. A wondrous number of times.

It’s called like you, whispered the angel. Maria.

And Mary, little girl, remained silent. In desired contemplation.

Soldiers guarded the streets, they entered the houses. Functionaries of the empire claimed the population count. The slaughter of lambs and children if necessary. Outside the walls, the shepherds, the beggars, the unclean, the lepers without hope.

On the face of Mary, of Mary in labor, a smile.

It’s never a good time to be born, repeated the angel. And ruffled the hair on the little girl’s head.

It all began. The star reposed. Joseph was preparing a pallet for the night. The angel greeted the colleagues at work.

And Maria, little girl, with tenderness approached Mary yet woman, yet mother.

And Jesus, child, strawberry, ellipse, continued to be born.

Grain of sand of light and salt. Mustard grain of speech and breath of wind.

Of wonder.

Maria e l’angelo curiosavano il mondo.

Pensi sia il caso, di nascere adesso? chiese la bambina. Sembrano strani giorni questi. È tutto così grigio.

Non è mai un buon momento per nascere, rispose l’angelo.

Le sue ali erano di neve. Maria poteva sbriciolarne un po’. Assaggiarle.

All’improvviso erano altrove. Si era abituata, Maria, a quei passaggi di tempo, di paesaggio, di sapienza.

Seguirono un filo di luce dorata, da una stella in lento movimento scesero in una grotta. Un bue, un asinello, un uomo, una donna, una pancia.

A Maria parve di aver vissuto quell’istante. Un numero meraviglioso di volte.

Si chiama come te, sussurrò l’angelo. Maria.

E Maria bambina restò in silenzio. In desiderata contemplazione.

I soldati sorvegliavano le strade, entravano nelle case. I funzionari dell’impero chiedevano la conta degli abitanti. Il massacro di agnelli e bambini, se necessario. Fuori dalle mura, i pastori, i mendicanti, gli impuri, i lebbrosi senza speranza.

Sul volto di Maria, di Maria in travaglio, un sorriso.

Non è mai un buon momento per nascere, ripeté l’angelo. E scompigliò i capelli in testa alla bambina.

Tutto era iniziato. La stella riposò. Giuseppe preparava un giaciglio per la notte. L’angelo salutò i colleghi all’opera.

Maria bambina con tenerezza si accostò a Maria già donna e madre.

E Gesù, bambino, fragola, ellisse, continuò a nascere.

Granello di sabbia di luce e di sale. Di senape granello di parola e di soffio di vento.

Di stupore.

In this story, Mary, little girl, has not yet been born. Mary is with her angel. This is borrowed from the following tale of the Jewish tradition.

When the baby is in the mother’s womb his days go by happily. A lamp burns above his head and his gaze can embrace the world, from one end to the other. In those days he was also taught the entire Torah. But as soon as it comes to light an angel puts a finger on his mouth, as if to suggest silence and the newborn forgets the entire Torah. The sign that remains is the prolabio, the small hollow between the upper lip and the nose.

Thank you, Trisha Traughber, for making me feel at home here on Vagabond Voices, and for your way of looking at stories and the world.

Thank you, Thomas Gaudex, for sharing my stories on Scribe!

Thank you all for reading and that Christmas may be a grain of nascent wonder…