Rest beside the weary road

Meaning of Advent:  Arrival.  In the Christian Church, it is also the time traditionally set aside for remembering and celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ at Christmas.  This year, Advent lasted from Sunday, December 3, to Sunday, December, 24.  Hope, peace, joy, and love were the primary teachings of Jesus, and these are the four principles emphasized during this time of remembrance as we awaited the celebration of a holy birth.

Christmas arrived.  Now it is December 26, a day full of so many things in our crazy, wonderful culture:  sales, returned merchandise, indigestion from too many Christmas goodies, dealing with the cookie crumbs and glitter embedded into the carpet, stray wrapping paper and ribbon floating around the house, Christmas trees dropping needles, company departing, kids and dogs and cats crazed from too much excitement, adults exhausted.  Depression, let-down, loneliness, looking ahead to the next stimulating activity, hunting for batteries for new devices, wondering where to stash all the debris until we can put out the garbage, a general feeling of malaise . . .

Hope, peace, joy, and love? — concepts so big, almost un-comprehendable — and at the same time, so simple — what do we do with them if they have indeed arrived?  Can we fit them in around the edges?  Are they guiding stars?  Canes upon which we depend as we walk on uneven ground?  What do they even mean?

Those four words are so short, so easy to say, so familiar, but even after 77 years of earnestly trying (at least most of the time!), I still have no real, experiential sense of what they mean.  I guess if they were real in our individual lives, they’d be real in our communities and in our world.

What I have learned is that in order for me to even approach an awareness of what these concepts are about, I have to be willing to acknowledge also their dark cousins — the despair, conflict, sorrow, and hatred within me.  And that’s so hard.  Who wants to look at that, let alone experience it?

Opposite sides to the same coin — how can we know what hope is if we haven’t experienced its opposite, despair?  Or peace if we don’t know what conflict is like . . .  And who would know what joy is if they haven’t experienced the dark night of the soul in sorrow . . .  And can we really know what the depths of love are if we haven’t acknowledged our own hidden places of hatred?

It’s a lot easier to dig that leftover Christmas glitter outa the carpet than it is to do this kind of inner work as you journey through the year to come.  But I wish us all well, me included, as we do it.  My commitment to myself was that I would write my own reflections during the season of Advent, and give them wings into the outer world.  I didn’t check to see who, if anyone, those words reached.  But if it was you, thank you so much for reading them!  I hope at least one thought might have made your journey a little easier, with a smile, a chuckle, a new idea, or even — wow! — an insight.

And a new year full of promise to each of you!

A birth that changed everything . . .

What can I give Him, poor as I am . . .

I sat at my butcher block yesterday, rather glumly chopping vegetables for the Christmas company soon to arrive, and thinking about why our culture, our society, our crazy and wonderful and amazing and horrific world celebrates this holiday we call Christmas.  Why do we bother?  So many strange customs, rituals, and traditions surround it, secular, religious, deeply spiritual, cynical . . . Some full of the deepest meaning, some fun, some materially oriented . . . Commemorating the birth of a person born more than 2000 years ago who some call a god, a savior; some call a great prophet and teacher; some call just a man, reviled by some, worshipped by others, treated with indifference by many.

Regardless of your spiritual persuasions, something about that birth changed the history of our world.  Not too many folks today are untouched by this thing we call Christmas.

Why are you touched, I wonder?  How is my life or your life different because of Christmas?

The company coming for whom I am preparing food are professed “non-believers,” whatever that means.  Why am I chopping carrots and celery and cranberries for a feast to celebrate — what? — Nothing?  No, for them, it is an opportunity for family to gather, and family means so much to them.  It is where they give and receive something called love, attachment, belonging . . .

Because it is not my need, my longing, does not make it wrong.  This is something I can offer, even if rather churlishly.  Maybe that’s what that birth 2000 years ago was all about.

And so I chop vegetables.  Sweep the floor.  Clean the bathrooms.  Put clean sheets on the beds.  Place brightly wrapped packages under a tree.

Many legends and superstitions came to the mountains with our ancestors. One legend says that on Christmas Eve the animals talk. Bees in their hives are said to hum the melody of an ancient carol from dusk to dawn. The old people say they have heard the music of the bees and have seen cows kneel and speak. On this holy night, the plants will bloom as they did when Christ was born. Although covered with snow, underneath, the ground is covered with soft green vegetation.  (from Bush’s  Dorrie, Woman of the Mountains)

By now, you are very familiar with my love affair with the sound of words suggesting the thing they describe — words like moo, oink, meow, croak, roar —  there’s even a term for that — onomatopoeia. 

The word enchantment is like that for me.  Can you even say the word without its meaning — “a feeling of great pleasure and attraction, especially because of something’s beauty” — filling you up?  I would have read Thomas Moore’s wonderful book The Enchantment of Everyday Life for its title alone.

And the idea of animals talking on Christmas Eve fills me with such enchantment.

Back in the 1970s, my husband and I gave up a successful practice in the swamps of Louisiana and moved a thousand miles northeast into these ancient mountains where I had been born, following a dream of self-sufficient farming.  One of the first things we did was to build a small barn and get some animals.

And every Christmas Eve, without fail, at midnight I would go to the barn to “hear the animals talk.”  My mother, who, as I have told you before, never met a superstition she didn’t like, of course was a believer, and had always told me it was so, that indeed the animals talked at midnight.  Not only that, but they bowed down.

And it was true!  Because I believed, I indeed could hear the soft murmurings of the animals to each other in the half light of the outdoor dawn to dusk lamp.  As the animals knelt in the fragrant hay, it was easy for me to imagine what they were saying to one another about a night 2000 years ago.

(Maybe one could say that had I gone out every night, instead of only on Christmas Eve, I would have heard the same murmurings and mutterings:  “Move over, Joe, you always hog the space.”  “Strawberry, your tail is tickling my nose, and making me sneeze.”  “Bunny, did you hear what Al did today?”)

Thomas Hardy was a novelist at the turn of the twentieth century, a century marked by world wars and unspeakable atrocities, truly a time of disenchantment.  But he also wrote poetry, and one poem, The Oxen, so evocatively demonstrates a longing for that lost enchantment.  He takes us into a group of people gathered in maybe a small tavern or cottage:  it is a lovely poem, and I invite you to read it in its entirety— here are just a few paraphrases:  Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.  “Now they art all on their knees,” an elder said as we sat in a flock by the embers in hearthside ease.  We pictured the meek mild creatures where they knelt in their strawy pen, nor did it occur to one of us there to doubt they were kneeling then . . . If someone now said “come see the oxen kneel,” I would go with him in the gloom, hoping it might be so . . .

It is up to you, of course, just how enchanted you want to be this Christmas Eve.  Me?  I’m gonna listen.

And if you truly listen, you will hear.

 

The changing views of reality during this century have shaken many, causing fear and consternation.  It is at this point of panic that fundamentalist beliefs become strangely attractive, for their dogmatic character ensures an unchanging stability for the fearful.  (Caitlin Matthews)

To Marvel:  to be filled with wonder or astonishment.  (Webster)

Maybe, just maybe!! — MARVELING might be an antidote for the “dogmatism that ensures an unchanging stability for the fearful.”

But then — after all — and on the other hand — we can’t go around marveling at every little thing, can we ??

Why not???

Years and years ago, I attended one of those new age workshops where we delved into strange, and yet stranger phenomena.  As the participants reported their interestingly woo-woo experiences to the workshop leader, he would always respond with a jolly smile and a wide-eyed “Imagine that!”

On this two-days-before-Christmas day, here’s a suggestion from an old fart (me):  just for today, when you feel that old familiar sense of “I’m right and you’re wrong, YOU IDIOT,” rising up inside yourself, take a deep breath, and say,   “Imagine that!!”  And let it go.

Gradually, each time you do it, you’ll find yourself marveling more and more. . . Less dogmatic, and in a happier place of wonder and astonishment at the beauty and the absurdity . . .

 

 

 

 

 

The world has tilted far from the sun, from color and juice.  I am waiting for a birth that will change everything.  (Llewelyn-Williams)

What needs to be reborn in your life?  (Matthews)

The rebirth of the light begins on this day, even though it may seem as short and dark as yesterday when winter solstice gave us the least amount of light followed by the greatest period of darkness.  In Ireland at Newgrange, there is a megalithic structure erected eons ago where on the shortest day of the year, a thin finger of light passed through an aperture at dawn.  To the ancients who constructed it, the return of the sun, the light that gave life, must have been everything, and special celebrations encouraged the return of the light on this day.

The Standing Stones in this photograph are certainly not Newgrange, but rather a smaller structure in a series of such Stones on the Wild Atlantic Way in Ireland. These were in a  cottage garden where I stayed for a month.  Frequently during that time,  I would watch busloads of tourists stop for ten minutes or so, climb about over the stones, laughing, taking pictures, getting back on the bus . . . Continuing on their Journey.  Maybe honoring the Stones and the Possibility of the return of light in our own 21st century manner (or at least I’d like to think so) . . .

If you stand in the sunlight at midday today, you will see that your shadow is the very longest it can be.  You can get your best glimpse of that shadow, and maybe it might occur to you to reflect upon the partnership of Light and Shadow in your own life.

At this time, we do indeed wait for “a birth that will change everything”  . . .  Not just for Christians awaiting the birth of  Jesus Christ, but for many earlier societies also celebrating new beginnings at this time of year with festivals of light and renewal, this was a time of necessary rebirth.

Kinda exciting, isn’t it, to think about what needs or wants to be reborn in one’s own life?  And what kind of new life might come from brokenness . . .

Today we celebrate light, and honor the wisdom of the shadows.(Avelin)

and

After the longest night, we sing up the dawn . . .  (Avelin)

 

From the Cambridge Dictionary:  GLIBLY — in a way that is confidant, but is too simple, and lacks careful thought.

I think sometimes that I treat most things too glibly.  Maybe we live life this way to a large extent because we have to pretend, even to ourselves, that we know what the heck we’re doing, and what it’s all about.  And we really don’t.  Most of us probably can’t articulate why we don’t spin off into space in this very second.

Join me in reading the two quotations above carefully, thoughtfully — not glibly — and let their meaning sink into your awareness.

On this day of shortest light, longest darkness . . . Let the meaning of the words become real to you.

 

We need a refuge, even though we may never need to set foot in it.  (Abbey)

One of the advantages to aging — you get to know yourself, and what you need,  the real you, minus the bullshit . . .(paraphrased, from Robertson)

A cottage in winter.  A doorway defined by darkness.  Thoughts of warmth, of comfort, safety.  A respite from the cold and from the unknown.  A place to Be.  A sanctuary.

I’d put lots of fluffy, colorful quilts in mine.  A dog or two.  And what’s a dog without a few cats.  And then of course we need a fire for them to curl up by . . . Lots and LOTS of books . . .

The aromas of burning cedar wood in the fireplace, an apple pie fresh from the oven, yeasty bread dough shaped into loaves waiting for baking, maybe a pot of veggie soup or chili on the stove . . .  Definitely hot chocolate . . .

Perfectly soft, non intrusive music so I could still hear the sounds of nature . . .

Would I want other people in my Winter Cottage?  H’mmm.  At the point of considering this, I  have invited the possibility of — what?  Definitely the unknown . . . Possibilities for less than harmony and peace . . .  But also the delight of companionship and sharing . . .

As long as I can remember, and that’s a-WAY back there, I have longed for a companion, a playmate   As a child, I invented one, my imaginary friend Learny.  Learny KNEW and understood things, many wonderful things that I didn’t know.  (Now I would likely call her my guardian angel, an old wise one.)  And she didn’t give me a hard time, being a very agreeable sort, very unconditionally accepting.

She’s still around today, although she tends to appear more randomly.  Perhaps I needed her more as a child.  The people closest to me now in the flesh tend to be of the challenging sort, keeping me on my toes, and raising eyebrows at some of my more froufrou tendencies and ideas.

Maybe my writing these “whatever’s” and sending them out there into the unknown is a way of connecting with a companion — although yesterday my nearest and dearest suggested this writing just might be mental masturbation.  It took me aback, which probably means there’s some (unpleasant) truth to it.

It would be fun to know what you would put into your “Winter Cottage” — your imaginary (or maybe real!!) place of refuge and sanctuary.  Would you have other people there?  I’ll probably never know, so I’ll imagine instead  . . .

Here in the eastern U.S., winter arrives tomorrow, Thursday, December 21, at 10:27 p.m.  Hope you have it all ready for yourself by then (your Winter Cottage, I mean, in case you haven’t been following my meandering thoughts)!

 

 

. . .a perennial invitation to reinhabit our deepest decency . . .  (Popova)

There must have been some magic in that old silk hat they found — for when they placed it on his head, . . .  (from Frosty the Snowman, popular Xmas song)

Truth.  Respect.  Responsibility.  Compassion.

That’s how I’d make my Frosty the Snowman be — who I’d magically turn them into with that old silk hat.  They wouldn’t have to be particularly clever or smart or cunning or handsome or rich or funny (although a sense of humor would be nice) or able to leap mountains with a single bound . . .

Truth.  Respect.  Responsibility.  Compassion.

Decent.  More than anything else, I would choose decency as a quality with which to endow my Snowman.

I was watching a news program with a friend last evening, unfortunately one where the intent of the news presented seemed aimed to validate the views of the listener, rather than to educate.  As the interviewer talked loudly over his guest, I realized I was over being incensed as I usually have been in the past at such antics, and only felt terribly sad.  As I turned to share my dismay and chagrin with my friend, I realized that they had seen nothing amiss.

It seems to me that some things have to matter:  Truth.  Respect.  Responsibility.  Compassion.

Decency.

But I also realized yet again that my “truth” in this situation was not how my friend perceived this situation at all.  And so I reined in my desire to yet again rave on about bottom lines — that indeed there are some things that do matter.  Don’t they?  No matter how differently we see the situation, aren’t there some minimal standards for how we treat one another?

When I checked out the generally accepted definition for the concept of decency, I found:  the ethical and moral measure to be applied as a benchmark for human behavior, which is based on a consensus in a social group or society, and on which expectations and assessment for human interaction are therefore based.

Okay.  I guess I just gotta accept that I and my friend differ on what and how important these generally accepted “ethical and moral measures” that are “benchmarks” for human interaction are.

But you know what?  My Snowman is not just gonna be a jolly, happy soul — they’re gonna be decent.

Truth.  Respect.  Responsibility.  Compassion.

In fact, I’ve decided my snowman’s gonna look a lot like Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and in It’s a Great Life.

 

 

How beautiful on the mountain are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring glad tidings . . . (Paraphrased from Isaiah, the Bible)

Go tell it . . . (19th century Xmas hymn)

I sit here in the darkened living room this morning listening to the silence.  I feel dusty and empty, totally devoid of thought or creativity, unsure if I’ve ever had anything to say, but pretty sure that I don’t have anything to say on this day.  Certainly nothing that would inspire or create any incentive for someone to “rest beside the weary road” by reading these pages.  Even coffee doesn’t jump start inspiration . . .  So, Reader, beware.

It is not that I don’t want to inspire and uplift and reassure — it’s just all been said before, by voices more capable than mine.  If ole’ Isaiah the prophet were to say to me, “Go tell it on the mountain, Girl!”, I would be lost.  Tell what?  To whom?

What am I even doing here sitting in the dark, listening to the various early morning creaks and groans and complaints of an old house and an old body?

If I were to heed his exhortation, in my imagination, I can see myself ascending the rocky steps of the mountain, arriving at what I’ll call a summit, looking around,  and since there’s not much here, choosing to sit and rest awhile, and listen.  The twitter of birds.  The rustle of darting chipmunks.  Maybe a squirrel scolding me, sounds angry.  Am I interfering with his nut hunt?  Some unknown sound that could be faintly alarming if I let myself think of bears, or worse, bear hunters . . .

The mountain is supposed to be where I come to talk to God in the myths and stories, right?  The Wise Old Person?  The prophet?  But there is no one here, no words . . . None to hear, none to say, no one to listen if I indeed had some TO say . .

So on this day, one week before Christmas, all I have to offer you is an invitation to join me in the empty silence, and listen to whatever is there . . .

. . . maybe it is the plodding footsteps of an old donkey carrying a young, tired, and likely very discouraged and uncomfortable young woman to some unknown place for an unknown task for which she is totally unprepared.  It is very dusty on that road . . and she is so swollen with the child she bears that she cannot even see her feet . . .

. . .how beautiful are the feet . . 

 

 

In the depths of winter, I found that within me there lay an invincible summer.  (Camus)

No one but you can build the bridge upon which you, and only you, must cross the river of life.  (Nietzsche)

As I write, the view from the window beside me reveals a winter’s dawn creeping over the valley, light just beginning to spread over the still darkened mountain.  A nor’easter is supposed to head up the East Coast today, only rain, no snow here in the valley, so no white Christmas.  Yet.

My sister and I will be heading out soon on our usual Sunday morning ride, our search for the ultimate back road, our time to talk of “of shoes snd ships and sealing wax— of cabbages and kings — and why the sea is boiling hot — and whether pigs have wings,” our time to wander and wonder and connect.  To remember.  Our church service.  Usually we have no plans and just let the wind take us, but today we are going back into the mountains, “up home,” to lay Christmas greenery and berries on my grandparents’ graves.

Usually it’s a very quiet and solitary time, and we often don’t see another soul, just invisible ones.  The small country churches we pass have fewer than a half dozen cars out front; the numbers of the faithful are diminishing.

Perhaps this morning we will collect more river rocks from the spring that runs past the now deserted and derelict rocky mountain land on which my grandparents eked out a living and raised a family.  My sister and I have often wondered why these people, our ancestors, chose such an inhospitable place to homestead, why they went so far back into the mountains on their long trek from the Old Country, why they didn’t settle in the richer farm lands of the valleys.  Were they forced into that?  Why did they want to be so far away from others?  Fertile ground for the imagination, especially when stories abound of bootlegging and white witches and the spirits that haunt those old mountain hollows . . .

With the river rocks we’ve already collected, I’ve built cairns about our own land — heaps of stones, prayer altars, places of gratitude and remembrance, symbols that point the way — Indicators of a sacred journey  . . .

Today is a week before Christmas Eve, a time when we will honor and remember another Journey.  Regardless of your spiritual orientation, the Christmas story is a myth of wonder — not the sanitized version we so causally accept, but one of poverty and pain and raw fear, dirt and disaster . . .

Much like the ones our ancestors must have faced as they beat their way through the forests and mountain thickets to settle into these isolated and deserted hollows, driven by what forces, what fears, what dreams . . .