Another Christmas has passed. Just as flat and meaningless as all the others. Christmas markets, presents, visiting relatives. The same few days we try to make seem more important, more significant than they actually are each year. As if it weren’t just another date on the calendar.
I’ve never understood why this is such a big deal for people. We know Jesus was actually born in summer, somewhere between 6 and 4 BC. This modern event — I deliberately avoid using the word “holiday” — is nothing more than an artificially constructed “celebration of love.” It’s not about love, though. It’s about conscience. About being okay with ourselves at least once a year. Like the old indulgence certificates. You paid, and you saved yourself the long pilgrimage to Rome. You didn’t have to walk the path; you just had to pay the price. Thanks, Pope Leo X. It was a really good idea.
Today, the same thing happens, just with better packaging. We buy presents. The more we’ve neglected our family during the year, the more expensive they are. That way, our obligations are settled for another year, and if we’re lucky, we get to see our children’s eyes light up.
It’s particularly hard for me to understand any of this because I’m not religious. Let’s say I consider myself agnostic. I believe in some higher self, a collective consciousness, a vast repository where all knowledge is gathered, from which we receive only crumbs of information. But faith in the classical sense has always been foreign to me. Besides, I like logic. And let’s face it, faith and logic rarely sit at the same table.
Faith is a lot like politics. We try to place control of our lives in someone else’s hands, avoiding responsibility. We talk about predestination, fate, and pray to an invented creator to help us. Every four years, we go vote and wait for economic growth and tax breaks. When things fail, we can say the government and God were to blame — we did everything we could.
The whole thing would be much simpler if we hugged our children every day instead of rushing off without a word in the morning. If we immediately noticed when they were happy and smiled with them, instead of burying ourselves in work while they play in the middle of the room. If we paid attention when they spoke to us, instead of just offering a quick “leave me alone” as our response.
Trembling, wrinkled fingers drew the curtain slightly aside,
many pairs of faded eyes peeked out.
Down below, on the ground floor,
the janitor set down his bucket,
and even the broom in his hand stood still.
Somewhere a key jingled,
and a young woman led her child by the hand into the light.
She cooed loudly to the little blonde,
and with her thin, long finger
pointed up, up to the sky:
See what a tiny miracle,
yet how beautiful, yes, beautiful!
The snow is falling, the first snow,
and the whole courtyard is pure sugar.
A small joy for hearts, but like a snow cloud,
it too drifts away.
The snow is falling, the first snow,
and the whole courtyard is pure sugar.
A small joy for hearts, but like a snow cloud,
it quickly drifts away,
leaving behind only the gray sky.
Winter has grown so fragrant, so pure and silent,
in the dark room everyone dreams like a child.
We don't believe in the slush now,
or the ear-freezing cold,
we only see how beautiful it is like this for one day!
See what a tiny miracle,
yet how beautiful, yes, beautiful!
The snow is falling, the first snow,
and the whole courtyard is pure sugar.
A small joy for hearts, but like a snow cloud,
it too drifts away.
The snow is falling, the first snow,
and the whole courtyard is pure sugar.
A small joy for hearts, but like a snow cloud,
it quickly drifts away,
leaving nothing behind but the gray sky.
I’m no better than anyone else. I see my mistakes. I see the solution too. I’ve seen it for years. And that solution remains just as distant as it was five or ten years ago. This is life’s great trap. When we studied “The Tragedy of Man” in high school, they showed us this grand lesson, only it was completely misinterpreted. “I told you, man: struggle on and trust with faith!” The struggle cannot be the goal!
There’s that well-known quote often attributed to the Dalai Lama:
“Man sacrifices his health to make money. Then he sacrifices his money to recuperate his health. And then he is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present; the result being that he does not live in the present or the future; he lives as if he is never going to die, and then dies having never really lived.”
This reveals the truth, shows the paradox of human life and the misplacement of priorities. Money itself is not happiness. It’s certainly not a goal, not a value, not a moral measure. Money is a tool.
If a person has an adequately large income, they don’t have to work ten to twelve hours a day. They have time. Not leftover time, not a tired half-hour in the evening, but real, usable time from which shared experiences are born: excursions, activities, travels, and memories. These are the things that make life complete.
But money doesn’t just provide time; it also provides security. It helps ensure that our entire lives aren’t about survival, that every day isn’t a constant struggle, but that there’s room to think, to decide, to be present. And this security manifests in very concrete things: healthy food, quality clothing, comfortable living conditions, outstanding education, and countless small details that together represent the future.
A few years ago, I saw a documentary about several very successful Hungarian entrepreneurs. Each of them was a billionaire. They had one thing in common, which was more shocking than inspiring. They woke at dawn, worked until late evening, and told this story with pride. The program presented this attitude as an example to follow.
No one asked them what the point was. Why is it good if they never stop? Why is their goal to make more and more money and build bigger and bigger companies?
Struggle has its place at the beginning, when it’s justified. I understand when everything is subordinated to achieving the goal then. But beyond a certain point, you have to know how to slow down. Get off. Know how to enjoy success. If you can’t do that, then it’s not success — it’s prison.
Of course, this is when that saccharine half-truth usually comes up: that money doesn’t matter. That you can live happily even in poverty. That love compensates for everything. I’m particularly infuriated by those images where a loving family sits in their coats around an empty Christmas tree in the evening, a rag doll for a present, but given “with heart.”
At our company, every year we fulfil the Christmas wishes of many, many children. We “adopt” a child from the list and buy them what they drew. I’ve never seen sadder drawings in my life. There was a kindergartener who drew chocolate, another who drew a hat. When an eight-year-old girl asks for a hair tie for Christmas, that’s where things are really bad. That’s where the country is dying.
Does anyone really believe they’re happy? Is there anyone who thinks their parents are happy? A kind but poor parent is slowly consumed from within by the knowledge that they can’t provide their child with many basic things. I’m not talking about luxury, but the human minimum. Later — as an embittered person in their forties — even happiness will disappear, and only poverty will remain.
The old lady bought a tree,
a tiny, green pine.
She carried it in her arms
like an infant.
She decorated it, placed on it
apples and walnuts,
and so there would be music,
she turned on Petőfi Radio.
This is the last Christmas alone,
celebrating separately.
Next year will surely work out,
and we'll be together again.
She set the table for one
on the bare table.
Today there were two courses, exceptionally,
because this is a special occasion.
She sat in the armchair,
the old man's photo in her hand.
Since he left, for the umpteenth time,
she promised again that
This is the last Christmas alone,
celebrating separately.
Next year will surely work out,
and we'll celebrate together
up there…
So we don’t end this piece with such heavy thoughts, let me close with a very short story. It’s funny and very sad at the same time.
Christmas 1988 was the first one I spent with a girlfriend. I met her on the first day of winter break at a high school Christmas party. She was sweet, funny, and rather carefree. On the dance floor, she suddenly stopped in front of me and looked into my face.
– You coming out? – she asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed my hand and pulled me out with her.
We spent the night at her place. Back then, I didn’t have much practice in how to make casual conversation with the fathers of girls. But hers was young and laid-back. My awkwardness passed surprisingly quickly. I spent Saturday there too; in the evening, I had beers with her “old man” before we went out. We spent the following days alternating between the bed, a pub, or a party.
Christmas Eve was approaching. Around two in the afternoon, her father came in without knocking. He looked at us and said the sentence that immediately burned into my eardrum, indelibly:
– I’d appreciate it if you went home tonight, because Christmas is an intimate family holiday. I think you can manage not fucking my daughter for a few days.
I got dressed very quickly and never saw the girl again.