Christmas in Present Perfect Tense
In early December, I was talking with my spiritual director about Advent, about the deep ache of it, and the deep wonder. I was talking about my specific losses and fears, as well as my specific joys. I was talking about the hope that was showing up even in the midst of grief. She listened, and nodded, and repeated back to me each insight I skimmed over in my breathless rush to get it all out. And then she gently asked if I wanted to take some time to listen to my soul, which was a nice way of telling me to stop talking, to pause. And so I closed my eyes. She led me through a lush valley to the base of a mountain, which I began to climb. The effort of it–the feel of the brush against my ankles, the bare earth against my palms–was exhilarating and frightening. For some reason, I wanted to get to the top. I could feel my muscles tensing and releasing. I could feel the soles of my feet carefully settling into each foothold. The higher I climbed, the more deeply I settled into my body...