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In both of our traditions, the birth of our Teacher is marked by signs and wonders.
As a child, my mother told me the story of the kneeling, talking animals. Over the years, I have woven it into many another tale told in the dark.
Each year, we spin a tale of transformation and change, of light returning on the last stroke of midnight. And we tell it, each adding their part in turn, around glowing candles. Five of us this year. Five stories about Christmases and wonder, sadness and joy, woven into each other. Children born and parents dying. Love lost and love found.
The curtains were open wide and lights burned in them for the benighted traveller and the woman in labour.
This year, as every year, the last story, the story that is told only in silence, followed the twelfth bell and, in the dark, the story of all those who have no voice.
Both Gautama and Jesus are said, in legend, to have been born without pain to their mothers. The curse of Eve, dukkha in samsara: suspended while the world is changed yet remains entirely itself.
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