Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:


Our baby’s joy has long since infected us (never have we done less to fend off an infection), gratefully we swallow this healing poison whose supply will not be depleted in a lifetime. Our baby rejoices: at the skipping crows, a dirty bottle cap, our coming home, the golden chain around his aunt’s neck, the clicking of a tongue, the new, warm bedcover, that man over there (Ma, Ma, Ma), the noise of an excavator (Gra, Gra, Gra). Naturally the question stalks us: What will become of joy, this joy, this joy of the beginning (all over again: the beginning)? Instead of giving an answer, we rejoice that the question arose (just as our baby rejoices at every question he does not understand). Without shaking us, joy makes us awake, it is the element of awakening, is awakening itself. So we rejoice at what we are thinking, saying, believing (while the grumpy, joyless, haughty philosophy professor from the neighboring building comes around the corner, as always looking at the three of us with slight disgust, on his way to a hard day’s work on the truth, a job that will never end. Our baby points at him with jubilant glee, and we are unanimously happy to meet him).








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