today I will... clean

Today, I will clean. At noon, we will take the decorations off the tree; gather-up the candles, stockings, and garlands; wrap the glass icicles and the hand-made tapestries; put away the electric fairy lights and bring this season to a close. Our engagement with the Advent/Christmas/Epiphany cycle has run its course. And as all wise hosts understand, when the celebration is complete, it is best savored surrounded by silence. We need to rest from the sensuality of the incarnation, a time to pause and reflect, a chance to regain a measure of perspective. 

So I will dust, vacuum, wash floors and all the rest. It is a leave-taking of sorts, this "un-hanging of the green," that offers a sobering clarity into a New Year beginning. There is an emptying, too, like a fast or extended quiet time that creates space for whatever might come next. A bleak midwinter? Probably. A season for penitence and compassion in Lent? Inevitably. The startling song of the red wing blackbird after it slips back into town under cover of the night? Assuredly. Mud? The return of the sun? Clearing the land? Gardening? Wars and rumors of wars? Heartache? Waiting? Yes, yes, yes and more yes! But first there is the cleaning: the text tells us that after finding the tiny Christ Child in a most unexpected place, the Magi returned home a different way.

That is part of what the cleaning means for me. I find myself looking forward to moving out the clutter and simplifying our front room again. Our tree has been wonderful - a place of quiet reflection most evenings in the glow of candle light - but now our old friend is drooping and shedding pine needles. It needs to be hauled back into the wetlands so it can break down and rejoin the cycle of creation by the time the Spring Equinox rolls around. Cleaning brings clarity to our home, giving us a chance to re-imagine how it might become a space that nurtures more hospitality in the year come. One hope is to host a series of small, quiet dinners in 2020 using resources from the Living Room  Conversations to practice listening and welcoming new people into our small world. They put it like this on their website:

We can turn the tide of rising rancor and deepening division by starting new conversations that build relationships — move from "us vs. them" to "you and me." We can transform the toxicity of tribalism into positive connections through conversation. Each person who listens first to understand tips the scales toward a stronger and more equitable for our nation and better relationships in our daily lives. (https://www.facebook.com/LivingRoomConversations/)

What else might the encounter of the Magi with the Christ Child mean for us? I think that the birth is blessed, but it is just the beginning of honoring the light,
regularly returning thanks throughout the day, and finding new ways to rest into the presence of reflection and silence. I wonder how shall we return our home to a place that keeps the busyness at bay? Are there new/old ways to bring sensual, creative and artistic gifts into our space to replace the light of our tree?  To help us push back the darkness that threatens to squeeze God's peace out of our hearts? 

This notion is new to me, but I have been pondering some icons. Generations in the East have found that visual prayers contribute to a spirit of contemplation in the home long after the feasting and celebrations are over. For our family, the icons would need to be simple but creative. I would want to replace them seasonally, too both to deepen my liturgical prayer and because I get bored easily. 

Henri Nouwen wrote an elegant little book on using icons to pray with our eyes: Behold the Beauty of the Lord. I first read it in 1987 - thirty three years ago - and it still stands the test of time. What I had not realized until today, however, is that Henri was first introduced to icons at L'Arche in Trosly, France during a series of retreats. Had the late Jean Vanier's assistant, Barbara Swanekamp, had not placed an icon in the theologian's room, "this book probably would not have been written." In an introduction Nouwen writes;

Gazing is probably the best word to touch the core of Eastern spirituality. Whereas St. Benedict, who has set the tone for the spirituality of the West, call us first of all to listen, the Byzantine fathers (and mothers) focus on gazing.

Two icons that have caught my eye of late: "Epiphany" by the contemporary
artist Janet McKenzie, and, "Adoration of the Magi" from the ancient Ethiopian Coptic tradition. The first offers a creative insight into the blessings of Epiphany not only by picturing the Magi as Three Wise Women, but also by painting the participants as part of a bold and inclusive rainbow of humanity. (For an excellent description of this painting, please see Christine Schenk's article from the National Catholic Reporter @ https://www.ncronline. org/blogs/simply-spirit/epiphany-wise-women)

The second, from the Coptic Church of Africa, is equally captivating to me. It, too, is inclusive and creative; one time it looks ancient and then it looks completely contemporary. I love that all eyes are clearly fixed upon the Christ Child. 

Icons and candles will never replace the Christmas Tree. And they shouldn't. But they could give us another way to return to our home in a new way that is still grounded in the spirituality of Epiphany. Richard Wehrman's poem, "The Call" hit me just right today:

It’s not the day on the

calendar that makes the

New Year new, it’s when

the old year dies that the new

year gets born. It’s when the

ache in your heart breaks

open, when new love makes

every cell in your body

align. It’s when your baby

is born, it’s when your

father and mother die. It’s

when the new Earth is

discovered and it’s the

ground you’re standing on.

The old year is all that is

broken, the ash left from all

those other fires you made;

the new year kindles from

your own spark, catches flame

and consumes all within

that is old, withered and dry.

The New Year breaks out

when the eye sees anew,

when the heart breathes open

locked rooms, when your

dead branches burst into

blossom, when the Call comes

with no doubt that it’s

calling to you.