This strange November

Cold, heat, few mushrooms, but the same darkness as other Novembers. All Saints' Day is already far away. Luckily, the panellets from La Vienesa are still as good as always, because they only have one secret: real almonds, local pine nuts, with the taste of pine nuts, and not a shadow of potato or sweet potato. The next day, All Souls' Day, I don't remember if it rained or not. I like it when it drizzles a little on All Souls' Day, when cemeteries fill up with chrysanthemums, a beautiful flower. Saint Martin's Day has also passed, with the usual mild sun and pleasant temperature, but today, in the mid-afternoon, the sky has clouded over, the little summer has turned into an unpleasant day. This year, there has been a general strike: blocked roads, closed shops. People in the street. I don't think it's much use for anything. I have always been a bit pessimistic. But these are things that must be done. The world we live in has become an impossible world. Every day there are more poor people and every day there are more rich people. Well, it's not that there are more rich people, but rather that every day the rich get richer. Russians and Americans continue to argue about Ukraine. Trump, despite his defeat, continues to do foolish things. Netanyahu cannot bear having lost the power he had... And the Spaniards, those who are truly so and those of us who are only so administratively, will have to go vote on the 29th if we want the same people to continue ruling, who have done it very badly, or for the others to rule, who will do it even worse. As Don Antonio Machado said: "one of the two Spains must freeze your heart"…

As you can see, we are in a strange November. I miss the monotonous, gray, sad Novembers, with the tearful drizzle, the bare trees, the muddy paths, the half-rotted dead leaves. With the rose hip berries redder every day, the moss more velvety, all while waiting for Christmas and the nativity scene. I liked those Novembers when nothing happened. This year, November is so strange that election day is the first Sunday of Advent. Advent, the liturgical season that the Catholic Church prepares to commemorate the birth of the Baby Jesus. Protestants also celebrate it, and perhaps even more than Catholics do. Northern countries make fir wreaths with four candles and light one each Sunday of Advent. I would say that in those countries Advent is more alive than here.

We began November with All Saints' Day and we will end it with the first Sunday of Advent. It doesn't seem bad to me for a strange November. I like Advent, it is a hopeful time. From week to week we advance towards the celebration of the mystery of the Incarnation. And although Christmas should be a sad feast, because that Child who is born is destined for death (in fact, like all creatures that are born), instead, we, come on with the partying and nougat and champagne and whatever it is.

I like Christmas, in spite of everything. Above all, I like the nativity scene, this Italian invention (they say it was Saint Francis who made the first one), and I like making it. And, once finished, looking at it for long periods and lighting a little light in it (that which they now call a thumbtack and which my grandmother called a butterfly). I will make it like every year: some mountains of cork bark, a portal with the Child, the Mother of God and Saint Joseph, the ox and the mule and an angel above. And a path of coarse salt, meant to be snow, all surrounded by pads of velvety moss. A pond, with a woman washing, a farmhouse surrounded by poultry, a line of shepherds following the path and the three Kings in front of the portal, adoring the Child. Like every year. And with some fir twigs that I will use as trees, like every year, and with butcher's broom and holly, to give it a note of color, like every year.

I will have to review the lyrics of some little songs, which little by little are slipping from my mind. The Fum, fum, fum, of course, La pastora Caterina, El desembre congelat, all the usual little tunes, El petit vailet, El cant dels ocells…

Sometimes I feel guilty if I think at the same time about all this and the world that is every day more murky, complicated, terrible. I think about the horror of the poor Ukrainians, yes, but also about those in Gaza, and the poor here, without a home, without work, without sweet memories, without an encouraging future. I think about the young people who will not be as privileged as those of my generation have been, having escaped the Spanish Civil War, the Second World War. I think about the difficult future that awaits them and I think about how they live dependent on networks and vacuities. I feel guilty, yes, but I will make the nativity scene again, like every year.