Dirt, Death and a Bonny Baby

This evening on the Plaça de la Catedral I saw a man moving large green boxes around on a pallet truck.

Before I saw him behind it, I saw the green mass move, as if floating, between other boxes. It found a resting place in a line straight enough to delineate a passage.

In a few days these wooden boxes will open their upper halves on hinges and present themselves to the world as the Mercat de Santa Llúcia.

With Christmas in mind we’ll stock up on handcrafted earrings and necklaces. We’ll buy all the necessary accoutrements to build a crib even if we don’t believe. There’ll be running water and plenty of moss; great blankets of moss that we’ll clip with scissors or rip with our hands. A full complement of angels and animals will feature, huddled around a swaddled child that will not attract the attention of anyone but the faithful.

The others will muse at the caganet figure with his trousers about his ankles, his rear end cocked, depositing its refuse in the presence of the son of God.

The first moments of the physical intersection between God and our world are blessed with the defecating man whose form changes every year. Will he be a footballer or a politician? An actor or the Pope? Who knows but the factory that is currently busy pouring plastic into new moulds? When the market opens we’ll see who has won the honour and we’ll laugh like we did last year and the ones before that.

Tiós, logs with faces and forelegs will be bought in all sizes from miniature to mini-tree. The small ones grow, of course, into the big ones when you feed them. If you care for them during the weeks before Christmas they will swell with goodness which they’ll pour forth as presents on the night of the twenty fourth.

When the Tió is big and fat we’ll cover him in a blanket to keep him warm. We’ll sing songs to him to convince him that our love is not based wholly on want. Then we’ll beat him with sticks and order him to defecate, nay, shit, yes to shit, to shit presents!

Pregnant with goodness the Tió will offer up presents which parents will pull from under the rug. The children will be rewarded for their care of the Tió over so many weeks and the night will be a frenzy of playing, laughing and being together.

Of old the Tió was found in the forest where the family sought him out. He was then only a log but the children dressed him up and cared for him. After he had thanked his carers with presents he would be placed on the open fire where he would make the ultimate sacrifice; he would give his life to heat his friends.

In accordance with the inexorable cycle of life, the Tió’s ashes would be taken next day to the forest from whence he came. There they would be sprinkled on the ground, fertilising it, infusing it with life in the springtime when a new Tió would slowly rise from the ashes of his predecessor.

And in all of this Jesus is absent. He is in a manger on the shelf where the lights flash on and off and the recycled water runs ceaselessly in tiny mountain springs. Beside him the caganet we chose as our favourite, the figure that represents our year, fertilises the winter earth, helping to bring new life.

This tale is a beautiful yarn spun from the threads of nature and goodwill. This tale seeps into the fabric of life. In this tale light and running water nurture and bring joy to life.

Ah, but without dirt and death there would be no life at all.

Ah, but what of the bonny baby?