Santa Mama

I want to talk about
this big old white man
that we all know,
who seeks his way
through night and snow,
to bring us gifts and joy
like a light flash passing by
and greeting us with Ho-Ho-Ho.

God-like we praise him.
His existence is built on the child
who believes in his magic,
in his all-knowing might.
Believing that he knows what is true,
and that he knows what is right,
obeying his moral
full of admiration and fright.

With his book full of data,
full of all that he tracked,
he is judge for the young ones,
for how they say things and
act,
giving them a treat or the rod
for how well they fit into,
the system we built,
full of shame, fear and guilt.

So we’re planting the picture
of the white man in power
in their imagination right from the start
and they strongly believe in this immortal hero
till they find out the lie,
feeling broke in their heart.
And whilst the magic of Christmas fades away,
the patriarchal ideas within them stay.

So I am asking,
having been a child once myself:
Why are the women in this story
just a ┬╗pretty angel┬ź or an elf?
Where are the heroes that resonate with me?
Where’s the hero that a girl wants to be?
Why are the pictures of woman in red,
so often lying in dessous on a bed?

Santa Mama, this year I wish for you.
Be with us Christmas and the future to come.
Bring us your sack full of feminine home.
I want all the stuff, which for many is new:
Unwrapping vulnerability,
revealing pain and fragility,
weakness as no disability.
The gentleness, humbleness, patience and trust,
to nurture what’s hurting and seeking to rest.
The slowness, the intuition and love,
to build our sore souls a safe and warm nest.

I wish for all her gifts to lie
under the tree of life for us to receive.
I wish for new stories, that we weave.
I wish for new heroes, that we invent.
And I wish for that old white man
to become my close friend.
Cause only together we can ignite,
a new guiding star in the holy night.

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