Seven Days Ago – A Stollen Story 

The night of December 24 has multiple meanings for me. The sun is hiding for 3 days before and 3 days after Solstice. We are suspended in darkness. It is cold. Soon it will get even colder, winter arrives. Then, three days after December 21 and some waiting, the miracle happens. Promise of new life & hope is finally breaking the sun’s standstill, a turning point, a humble birth. We human beings need light, don't we?

 

The day before Christmas Eve, when a friend asks what I am doing, I text back: “Weeding, reading, mending clothes by candle light, sharing Stollen and four one-dollar bills, as well as a 20-dollar bill, with an older unhoused Black man near the downtown Berkeley farmer’s market. A younger homeless white woman comes over handing him a new sleeping bag. We are not drunk, on drugs, or crazy – the sun is warming the cold morning….”  Seeing the man’s wet sleeping bag spread out to dry in the sun, intuitively I stop, then get more money from the car. Brady is overwhelmed, shedding tears of surprise and gratitude. We talk. Miracles are happening for him today. Then somebody approaches, dangling a bag in front of him. Kissing him on the forehead, smiling happily, mischievously. Diane is her name. She is tough and sweet.  She saw what Brady needed. The three of us, strangers, we try my freshly bought Stollen. I tell the story of my grandmother baking every November huge loaves of this cake-like bread with flour, yeast, spices, raisins, Orangeat and Zitronat, little sugar, and lots of sweet butter. In the old days, it used to get you through the long harsh winters in Germany, I explain. Traditionally, families ate it as a special treat from December till February or March. The meaning and practicality of this food, reaches Diane, she nods dreamily when I speak about the butter. A luxury when I grew up. 

The world split-open… found at the beach 

 

My friend replies: “You are in the spirit, but I know you practice this every day.”  That is true. When I am out shopping, I take five- and ten-dollar bills with me to redistribute back into the community. The pandemic made me very organized about it. Despite myself living vey frugally, I cannot stand the feeling of shame, of having and not sharing. I have work and a home. The difference between poor and rich has aways been famously huge in America. And as this gap is exponentially increasing, I wonder how I could avoid my strange “survivor’s guilt” walking by the hungry, displaced, unlucky. Best to look away, not address the fear that me, too, I could be homeless. Freezing to death in the cold. As a child I often think about the possibility of this scenario. 

 

I text back: “This could be any day. It is not a sappy Christmas story. I learned a lot from Brady and Diane. Very interesting, not your typical stereotypes. I was awake....” For more than half hour the three of us are conversing in a relaxed, honest and direct way. Diane shares how she feels hurt when the guys call her bad names, but how she is tough on the outside. Brady nods, speaks with kindness. He reads the Quran, and will soon go over to the Public Library to charge his phone. He used to be in college when young. Back at home I realize that I must have been always a documentary filmmaker, even when very young. Wondering about others’ circumstances and stories, my irrepressible curiosity overcomes strong shyness. My imagination nourished by an innate sense of justice, a sensitivity to my surroundings, and the joy of communicating, relating, exchanging, gifting, the heart going out. The dance of life.  

 

last little edge 

 

The Stollen tastes not as magical as my paternal grandmother’s dense buttery delight, but this winter I understand deep gratitude yet on a deeper level. Weihnachtsabend, all alone, I have my slice with chrysanthemum tea by candle light. Dankbarkeit seems to be baked into it, enhancing the taste of life. The hands of Oma, her joyful mischievous eyes smiling. The gifts of a lifetime. 

 

May we all give, may we all receive.