advent wandering feeds my soul...

In so many ways this year's observance of Advent has been different from year's past. Beyond the obvious absence of opting-out of a worship community, we are in a genuinely stripped-down mode. Much of the last calendar year was shaped by de-accessorizing. Small wonder the minimalist mode has continued into our spiritual practices: candles, fairy lights and chant seems to rule the day.

In many ways, this is as it should be: having stepped back from public ministry in most of its forms, this is our unique time for being intentionally small, quiet and hidden. Di has been working vigorously since August at her on-line teaching gig. Since November she's been dealing with the return of chronic back pain, too. There has been precious little opportunity for us to be still together. Alone, yes, but not together to reflect on the blessings and challenges of this year. Or simply share our thoughts and feelings as we move through these strange, perplexing, broken but joyful times. 

That's probably why last August we intuitively set aside a few unstructured days to wander without commitment in the mid-winter beauty of Ottawa. Of course we wanted to celebrate the Lord's birth at the L'Arche Christmas Pageant. These dear friends have become a part of my heart. And now that our grandchildren are getting older, the time is right for us to travel to them and join our extended family in Brooklyn for feasting on Christmas Day. This year, you see, there is no longer any external pressure for us to be engaged or connected - and for two introverts this is a gift, indeed! Not that I would trade welcoming the Christ Child as we did for decades in church for anything. It was a privilege to lead Christmas Eve and Christmas Day Eucharist and I cherished it all. 

But that was then and this is now - and the stillness feels right. Yesterday we walked and walked, stopping in little shops from time to time to find gifts for our children and grandkids, before heading back into the mist for more exploring. It was the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year in our parts, so as the dark descended we found an appropriately Celtic pub and hoisted a pint in honor of the coming light. Then retired to listen to carols from Brittany and Ireland. I suspect that today will be
much the same.

Back in our days of public ministry, we would take similar wee trips every 8 weeks or so just to get away from the demands of being on. And while those days are over, Di said, "I felt a weight lift as soon as we crossed the New York border." She was right. One of the truths we'e discerned in this year of beholding what God is already bringing into our lives is that as much as we love our little house in the Berkshires, its time to move on. Where, exactly, is not yet clear, but one chapter is over even as a new one is unfolding. It will likely become a complete surprise, too.

That's another blessing. Having these two days alone lets conversations bubble

up and then go deep. Little by little the mystery of this new life is taking shape. There is much more to be revealed - and that cannot be hurried - so here's to more wandering, yes? It feels a bit a pilgrimage where the journey is every bit as valuable as the destination. We came upon this giant Christmas tree last night as we stumbled upon a new street we'd never traveled. I know from my past life that this wandering doesn't make sense to some friends: "make a plan and do it" they would demand! But the holy doesn't speak to either of us on command. I don't think she ever does. The Russian poet, Anna Ahkmatova, got it right in "I Taught Myself to Live Simply."

I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.