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Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

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A beautiful day, I notice at its end, an unmanufactured, unexaggerated day. It neither dragged nor hurried as it passed, we did not feel its beginning, its standing still, its vanishing. This day did not pass at all and did not stay either, it did not become and was not. On this day the baby’s true mastery shows itself. It is as if we (you, I) were at his side (without floating, without losing our footing, without clinging, without fear) like experience itself (but what is that supposed to be? we immediately ask, and immediately drop the question). It’s not that we can’t remember this day, on the contrary, we remember this day very precisely, completely, without residue and excess, we follow our baby into this noble form of memory, which wants to find no objection to the beauty of the day that has passed and consists entirely in agreement (and a little euphoria, a little more enthusiasm, and a great deal of love).

 

 

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Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

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Sleep has not become less important, but it has lost some of its weight and power. There are some (rare) days when our baby conquers sleep, even though his tiredness does not tolerate postponement. We are not unfamiliar with this occasional struggle (and the almost dizzying pleasure of opposing sleep). To escape the narcosis of sleep now and then, the waste of time it entails, being abducted into regions where we (the wakeful, smart, rational ones) don’t feel so at home – who would not meet this wish with understanding? But today someone calls out for help (for long minutes I overheard the call, how deaf I am sometimes). I don’t know which one of us two came upon this (childishly simple) solution. Already my hand lies on the baby’s breast and my arm supports his head (thwarting his attempts to escape). The power of sleep has shifted to my hand, my arm. I hold our child firmly with gentle force, when I want to loosen my hold on him, an awkward but determined movement of the baby’s arm pushes me back to a confirmation of my grip. In this way our baby and sleep come together, quickly and peacefully. (And I whisper just to myself: sleep-arm.)

 

 

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Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

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Does our impression only have to do with his recently gained mobility? Today our baby seems to have exchanged the admirable and baffling aimlessness of his beginning. But exchanged against what? Our baby is not drifting about, and neither is he following a definite intention. If he already knew how to really walk, we might call him a flaneur. But he isn’t idle enough for that, he’s too impulsive, too excitable, too distractible. He keeps turning around, circling. He has no goal (or is it that he can’t find one?): we would almost like to call his activity an aimless aiming, if that didn’t seem too convoluted an expression (the path is, in any case, not his goal). Why should we be able (he’s examining the router and producing a flurry of blinks) to follow our baby in this (sometimes our master is simply superior to us!), given the fact that we for our own part don’t understand whether we are following a goal when we follow a goal or whether we have something completely different in mind, but what? (Take a closer look, says our baby, look at me without looking at me, I’ll gladly be your goal.)

 

 

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Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

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Nothing is perfect. Less than ever. Every day, disorder and chaos are not far off. Our baby crawls through the apartment, into all the rooms, everything at the distance and height of his reach, everything on baby-level, can end up in his clutches. Then it is pulled out, examined, torn or broken or not, thrown to the ground or put aside, dragged away to some other place, rendered unfindable and for that reason alone unusable. I thought the baby would bring order into my life (order in the sense of participation in the great web of things), but now disaster threatens in the form of a previously unknown (but no, it must known to me from long ago!) chaos! I’m exaggerating, I tell myself by way of consolation, an attempt that immediately fails. Because to be honest, I am attracted to chaos, produced with such willfully gentle, concentrated intent, a disorder that soon starts to look to me like a higher degree of order, a previously disguised beauty (which examines differences intently in order to reject them as irrelevant after a short time). What is this you are wreaking, great baby? (And then I clean up after him, clean up, by the day, by the hour, bringing order into chaos, that too is my destiny, I cannot do otherwise.)

 

 

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Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

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Now we’ve managed to lose sight of something after all: the whole baby! We have matured over the months, gathered knowledge and insight. We looked into many details, our knowledge grew by the day. We became good baby connoisseurs, baby researchers and devoted fans (there is nothing about our baby that could fail to interest us, his slightest breath finds a place in our files). We hardly remember the overwhelming, infinite ignorance of the beginning. Was it that of the baby or our own? At the time, were we able to distinguish between our baby’s ignorance and our own, or is it just now that we can’t (yet we remember our own little consciousness well)? Regret rises up in us that the suddenly disclosed totality of life (back in those days, the days after the birth, the early days) has given way to its regularity. Let us (in a different way) remember: that our baby was just born, just a moment ago (it couldn’t have been any more recently).

 

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Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

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The spark in our baby’s eye: a hidden agenda (now it flashes in our minds). Evidently it starts so early that we don’t know what our baby is thinking. He looks at us (while his hands pull at a brown woolen sock) with the same familiar openness as usual. But there is something secretive in it, about which we don’t know anything, nor will we ever find out. And yet we see this secretive quality, in fact the secretiveness is openly displayed, looks at us openly! And remains secret nonetheless! (No doubt our baby is enjoying this, is teasing us with his secret, and his ability to hide something from us and at the same display this ability gives him pleasure, that is no secret. Maybe our thinking, we think, as we too now pull a little at the brown woolen sock, maybe our thinking is one great close-to-the-vest game of hiding from itself, a secretiveness the extent of which we are just now beginning to get a sense of).

 

 

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Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box

A sudden spark in our baby’s eye (he’s lying the changing table, that strange and unique place, a kind of altar, comfortably accessible for us, thanks to its height, so easy on the back that we hardly need to bend down; a place of intimate encounter, which we visit several times a day, first to take care of necessary business, then to linger in a mood that may contemplative or boisterous; often accompanying our activities with talk or newly found singsong; our baby stretches his body under our hands and we think again: how he has grown, his feet are already reaching the edge; this place is sparsely furnished: a towel, a little drawer for diapers and oil, paper napkins and a bowl with warm water off to the side on the windowsill; when we return to this place, it’s as if we had never left it; a holy place that could not be more profane; over all our being and doing there hangs the heating lamp, its orange light behind a grid seems undecided between the reddish glow of dawn and of dusk. It will probably take us a day before we truly notice the spark in our baby’s eye. Once again here: a good place for it).