The morning is crystalline, and the air so pure that every breath feels like a small communion, reminding me that the spiritual path does not end in the silence of contemplation; rather, it is only now beginning its true journey toward the world. I look at my hands and think of the paradox of the Incarnation—if Christ is born in us, then He is born not only in our thoughts or feelings, but in our actions, in our fingers, in the very rhythm of our presence among others. In psychoanalytic terms, this is the moment of transition from narcissistic absorption toward a mature capacity for generativity—for a creativity that transcends the narrow boundaries of our own Ego. I understand now that all this rooting, centering, and purification I have written about in recent days was merely the preparation of the soil—the invisible work of the root before the first fruit appears.
True initiation is not proven in moments of ecstasy, but in our ability to carry this inner light into the most banal, the most prosaic aspects of our daily lives. Here, spirituality meets psychological maturity—at the point where love ceases to be an abstract longing and becomes a concrete, often invisible and quiet action. To love "maturely" means to accept the imperfection of the world and, despite it, to choose to create good. This is our sanctification of matter through the labor of our hearts. When I prepare food for my loved ones, when I tidy my home, or when I simply listen to someone, I am not merely performing mechanical acts; I am giving flesh to the Word. Every action of ours, steeped in attention and mercy, is a continuation of the Nativity, a small step toward the transformation of the world.
I reflect on what spirituality calls the "fruits of the Spirit"—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness... In a psychoanalytic sense, these are the markers of an integrated personality that has managed to process its internal conflicts and has found its center. Love, in this context, is not sentimentality but an ethical position. It is the choice to see in the other not an object for satisfying one's own needs, but a subject with their own "inner cave." This is the ultimate act of awakening—when you stop seeking validation for yourself in the eyes of the other and begin to be a source of affirmation for them yourself. Our birth in Him makes us less needy and more giving, less judging and more understanding.
Creativity is also a fruit of this new state. But I am not speaking only of art in the narrow sense of the word, but of the creativity of life itself. Every moment offers us an opportunity to create something new—a new way of communicating, a new perspective on an old pain, a new solution to a long-standing problem. This is our daily new beginning. When we act from our center, we cease to be reactive—we stop simply answering a blow with a blow or pain with pain. Instead, we become proactive creators of reality, carriers of a renewal that begins from within and radiates outward. This kind of creativity is an act of faith; it is the conviction that even the smallest good has meaning and that light is stronger than darkness, not because it is louder, but because it is truer.
I often think that the greatest fruit of the spirit is indeed peace—that inner tranquility that does not depend on external circumstances. In psychoanalysis, this is the state of the "depressive position" according to Melanie Klein, where we accept the ambivalence of life, acknowledge our mistakes, and strive for reparation—for the mending of what we have broken. This peace is the fruit of a long and often painful purification. But when we achieve it, it becomes our most powerful means of influence. A person who carries peace within them sanctifies the space around them without even speaking. Their presence is an initiation for others into stillness and trust.
In this final entry of my pre-holiday diary, I want to emphasize that birth is not a one-time act, but a continuous process. Christ is born in us with every decision we make to choose hope over despair. We are born in Him with every "yes" we say to life, even when it is difficult. This mutual dance of the human and the divine finds its fullest expression in service. Not grand, public service, but the quiet, hidden kind that no one sees—the prayer for an enemy, the forgiveness granted to one who hasn't asked for it, the patience toward our own weakness. These are the true fruits that remain for eternity.
I sit by the window and watch the city prepare for the feast. I no longer feel that melancholic distance that used to make me feel like a stranger amidst the holiday bustle. Now I feel a tender sense of belonging. My rooting is in our common human destiny, in our common striving toward the Light. Every gesture of kindness I see outside—someone helping an elder cross the street, a mother caressing her child, a stranger smiling at a stranger—all of this is part of this great sanctification of the world. We are all laborers in this vineyard, all participants in this unceasing Nativity.
The psychoanalytic perspective tells me that full integration leads to the capacity to love and to work. The spiritual perspective tells me that faith without works is dead. These two voices sound in unison in my heart today. My commitment to the holiday is my commitment to Life. To be a channel for Grace, to allow Truth to flow through me without hindrance, to be a manger in which Love can rest and grow. This is my initiation into the maturity of the spirit.
Bright Holidays. These words now carry the weight of meaning. They are not just a wish, but an invitation to co-create with God. Let our "inner caves" not be prisons, but birthing rooms. Let our centering give us the strength to hold the hand of the one who is afraid. Let our awakening make us alert to the needs of the world. And let this Nativity of Christ be marked not by what we have received, but by what we have allowed to be born through us.
The sun is already high. It is time to go out, to merge with the flow of people, to carry this silence and this light into the noise of the day. My diary ends here, but the true writing begins now—with every step, with every word, with every action. Because life, lived in Him, is the most precise, most inspiring, and most exquisite essay we can ever write.
Christ is born in us. We are born in Him. And in this birth, the whole world becomes new.
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