Advent Day 6: Presence and Joy

I just received an email to a spiritual directors list that I am on from a woman in hospice who is at the end of her journey of  battling cancer for the past four years. Her email was full of love and joy, as she celebrated the voices from her past who had been re-connecting through this list.  She expressed sadness at leaving, and hope for the next stage of her journey.

As I read this, I was reminded of a  spiritual teacher of mine who died this year of pancreatic cancer- John Jerry Anthony Parente- and of the words I heard at his burial ceremony, of how he kept his love for life and his compassionate presence into his final days in hospice.

I am moved by those who carry this light, this love for life, and this compassionate connection to all that is even into times of surrender and death. When I hear these stories, I am also moved to ask the question: What is it that matters most?  Beneath the busyness that keeps trying to push its way in- the shopping ads, the  party invitations, and all the to-dos of celebrating- there lies the essence of life. This cultural imperative to feel happy seems a real slap at the ones I see hurting in this season- the ones who are struggling with depression, loss, financial stress,  health worries, and violence. Is there no place for their pain in this season of joy?

In reflecting on this, I hold the presence of the spiritual ones I have mentioned above as another imperative: to be present. In the acknowledgement of final moments is the meaning and matter of life- to celebrate, to love, and to let go.

May the cultural to-dos demanding a thin kind of joy fall away, and may another deeper joy emerge in the peace of the present moment.  This is the joy which feels and expresses sorrow, longing, darkness- as the candle of these days burns shorter and shorter.  And this is the joy that celebrates our interconnection with all, the immanent spirit of love and life, the eternity that is held in every second of this life. 

Advent, Day 4: The People Who Walk in Darkness

The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light.  Those words have been on my mind quite a bit lately.  They are words I memorized once upon a childhood Christmas pageant.  Our pageants would begin with the prophets, standing on pew benches, scattered among the seated throughout a dark church, and calling out these words into the darkness.  Finally we would sing, O Come, O Come Emmanuel, leading into the nativity story.

This Advent season the people who walk in darkness are ever present in my heart. This year's holiday cards- the dove of peace amid a winter scene full of light- will be sent out in many directions to places of darkness.  Most family and friends are easily connected- our wires are ever-intertwined by facebook, skype, twitter, text messages, emails, cell phones, blogs, and more- not to mention the gifts and hugs we can exchange in person. But there are others unplugged (in prison cell, combat zone, hospitals, elderly and poor) for whom handwritten cards might be the only way to connect. These are the ones I think of this year- some known, some unknown- as I write personalized cards with my children's help.

And there are many, so many, for whom darkness has a hold, even in the midst of our technologically connected world.  The holidays with all their sparkling lights bring out the sadness, the depression, the loneliness in many people.  There are ways then that we can be angels- not by shoving our holiday cheer at then- but by kindling the light hidden deep within.  If there is light to be seen, it is the light of hope that glows within each human being, the flame of compassion that flickers and burns between us, and the fire of joy that we can only know in communion with each other.

We too are the people in darkness, and we have seen a great light...it is the light of spirit, glowing within and around us all. And it is the light of our best humanity, birthing hope, compassion, and joy into this world.

May we extend our love to light the flame in another who's candle may have gone out. And together may our lights illuminate the darkness.

Advent, Day 3: A Deer's Pace

While there is much that I could write about today--much that is pressing in around me at a hustle and bustle pace, and much that is abundant and pregnant with new life--I will offer few words to the page.  Some experiences need to ferment and age a little before they can be shared. And often it is the quiet moments without words that offer the most necessary inexplicable truth.

This morning, it was a moment of standing still to watch a deer move quietly about the woods that spoke to me of that other life, that life of pause and hush beneath the hustle and bustle-- that contemplative life that lies waiting for us with the fullness of its beauty, if we only still ourselves long enough to receive it.

May we all find these moments of peace and stillness within the hurry of the season. 

Advent, Day 2: The First Candle

Lighting the Advent wreath is one of my favorite traditions.  It is a tradition that reminds me to keep the season holy, as a time of preparation and attentiveness to Spirit.  Yesterday morning, I awoke my young daughter, Elisa, to join me in lighting the first candle.

There are various practices of the Advent wreath-- different colors and different meanings for each candle, depending on the particular Christian denomination or sect.  As a Unitarian Universalist of Catholic roots, I choose new colors for candles within a traditional wreath- blending the old with the new.  Traditionally, Catholic wreaths include three purple, one pink, and one white candle in the center. My candles are three red and one green. I also have a white candle in the center- a symbol of the one spirit which joins the many paths. 

Yesterday, as I lit the candle, I also read a Bible reading from Isaiah.  My sleepy daughter listened, perking up in attention, then snuggled closer to me, as I read these words, from Isaiah 49:15-16:

 “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast
and have no compassion on the child she has borne?
Though she may forget,
I will not forget you!
See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;
your walls are ever before me."

Although she may not have understood another word I read, these words she knew. The God image for my daughter at 6 years old is one of maternal love.  

As we light our first morning candle together, I offer prayers of hope that this love will remain, secure and lasting between us, and as a presence that glows as light within my family. 

Advent, Day 1: Our Spirits Long

In a visualization exercise yesterday, I experienced a visitation from my father.  Knowing that we would have this time together, my heart beat in eager anticipation.  I was so excited to see him!  I sat in my favorite sacred space- on the yellow bench by the Fishkill Falls, and I watched as he came skipping down the road from the mountain in the distance.  He was wearing his mail carrier's uniform and smiling.  Tears streamed down my face as we embraced, and I felt his warm arms around me once again.

It has been seven years since my father died, so the visualization was a real gift. This was blessed time together of talking, of sharing stories, of laughing and making jokes and enjoying one another's company. I miss him dearly, and cherished this time.

On the first day of Advent, I liken that experience of waiting on the bench before his arrival to this season of anticipation and hope.  There is something we are all yearning for-- to be reunited with something or someone that loves us, to be held, to be cared for, to be complete.  Perhaps there is something concrete we may be awaiting- the visit of a loved one from far away, or an event we have excitedly prepared for, such as a wedding or birth.  Or perhaps it is something larger- the end to war and violence, homes for the homeless, friends for the lonely, peace on earth and good will for all.  In each and all, our spirits long to be made whole.   

During this season, may we prepare a space in our hearts to receive. May we sit in anticipation with yearning and hope, as we open ourselves to receive that gift of love and wholeness that comes to us skipping down and smiling from the mountain.