such is the way of advent...

Such is the way of Advent: a bit wistful as sorrow mixes with quiet anticipation, a hint of joy weaves throughout a day defined by deep grays, and always, always, a lingering taste of oatmeal pancakes, butter, and maple syrup from our breakfast pancakes. Today we grieved Mick's passing. We also put on snow shoes that have laid too long awaiting and hoofed through 14 inches of wetland snow. Our winter hound, Lucie, reveled in the romp and seemed to shake years off her aging countenance. Now she's crashed out on our bed snoring with blissful abandon. 

As befits late Advent, we're dining tonight on a potpourri of leftovers -

everything from pasta and meat sauce to last night's mashed potatoes and a few as still unnamed delicacies - to clear out the refrigerator of the past in anticipation of the feast of the new born Christ Child on Christmas Day. It is time to let the old be old as we move toward the order of a new day. I have been having a rough go at this trying to write our annual Christmas letter. To date it's been a bust but I'll give it another shot tomorrow after the live-streaming Advent reflection I share on Face Book each Sunday at 9:55 am. (If you're interested, check it out @ https://www.facebook.com/Be-Still-and -Know-913217865701531/) We've been on a virtual pilgrimage of sorts into a Celtic Advent. Given that this has been a year like no other in my lifetime, it seemed fitting to explore Advent in a new way, too. Using David Cole's useful little book, A Celtic Advent, as a jumping off point, I've invited a handful of friends from across the US to join me for a six week journey of prayer, silence, song, study, and spiritual wandering: a full forty days of candle lighting and song. I've learned a ton in preparation - which has only whetted my appetite for more - so after the Feast Day of the Nativity, I hope to read more Pelagius as well as early Celtic Christian history.

One thought that continues to float to the surface through these failed attempts at crafting a Christmas letter is how resourceful we have had to become during this season of contagion. Fr. Richard Rohr suggests that among the peculiar gifts of the Covid era, many of us have rediscovered what is most important in our lives: love, using our limited resources wisely, going deeper into prayer, beauty, silence and nature and giving new attention to small acts of tenderness. Rohr says that: "the Gospel is not about an ideal world where everybody loves everybody. The tragic, absurd sense of life - that's the Gospel - where the reality of disorder always gives way to the hopeful possibility of reorder." That rings true to me and I like what the late John O'Donohue adds:

At Christmas, time deepens. The Celtic imagination knew that time is eternity in disguise. They embraced the day as a sacred space. Christmas reminds us to glory in the simplicity and wonder of one day; it unveils the extraordinary that our hurried lives conceal and neglect. We have been given such immense possibilities. We desperately need to make clearances in our entangled lives to let our souls breathe. We must take care of ourselves and especially our suffering brothers and sisters.

 

As each day in our small world has been hallowed over the past ten months, home cooked meals have become sacramental. So, too a simple kiss or embrace. Time, love, words, prayers, thoughts, songs, house-cleaning, dish-washing, laundry, short walks in the wetlands and whatever time remains are recognized as gifts too precious to waste. When they are cherished and savored these little things become restorative. I've long suspected that the "small is holy" and now I know it in from the inside out. Before our solitude, I didn't know you could make chicken soup stock from bone broth. To be honest, I probably would have been revolted by the mere suggestion. But now, I am honing the process and look forward to it. Truth is I can't wait to give turkey and rice soup a try after this year's Christmas feast. I've started to learn how trees speak to one another and mother trees care for their offspring. I am rediscovering the beauty of a simple acoustic guitar played with a bit of skill and a lot of soul. I'm reconnecting with my creative and artistic friends in the region and even stepping outside my comfort zone with some poetry/music collaborations. The late Henri Nouwen offers this perspective that seems to resonate with my heart:

Joyful persons see with open eyes the hard reality of human existence and at the same time are not imprisoned by it. They have no illusion about the evil powers that roam around, “looking for someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8), but they also know that death has no final power. They suffer with those who suffer, yet they do not hold on to suffering; they point beyond it to an everlasting peace.