Advent
Advent
I tend not to write during periods of transition, when I probably need to write more than any other time. Making our two person family a three person family required a lot of attention to S and T (and not enough attention to myself and my writing). Day by day, we have been working on expanding old rituals and building new ones, navigating unexpected challenges, and facing our fears head on. We’ve been learning and growing together, sometimes traumatically, and sometimes in a slow, steady, beautiful rhythm, depending on the day. We’ve been returning again and again to the question of how we can best care for ourselves, each other, and the broader world.
It would have been easy at many times in the last five months to give up. Living together, building a new family, planning a wedding, seeking and finding a new job (for T) and continuing to navigate ever more complex projects at work (for me)—none of this has been easy.
Five months in, things have not gotten any easier, exactly. But I am becoming aware, as is fitting for this season, of the light available even in the darkness. I am noticing negative patterns shifting, more gentleness, more compassion. Making decisions together is becoming more natural. Arguments are easier to navigate. Each of our hearts is softening. I become daily more sure I want to get married—but not because I want things to get better, or to be easier, and not even because I want to hold onto someone for the rest of my life. I am becoming more sure I want to get married because I am learning that true, forever love is anything but certain—that nothing is actually ever certain--but that making a commitment to live as best we can together, and supporting each other in the journey, is worth it anyway. Growing together and pushing each other to grow in new ways, even when painful, is worth it anyway.
And so we move forward as best we can. We love compassionately and act for peace and justice as best we can.
I am learning, slowly and surely, to be comfortable with uncertainty. That is the name of a book by Pema Chodron that T and I are reading from each morning and reviewing every night. We have read it, and most other books by Chodron, before, and we discovered early in our relationship that we were both devoted to, moved, and challenged by her work. But like all good books, it is one worth returning to, and reading it together has helped me to better internalize its lessons.
What does it mean to be comfortable with uncertainty? It means being truly open and curious about whatever happens next. The sound of the train in the distance, the slowly brightening sky, the holiday lights that are showing up in unexpected places—all of these relatively mundane occurances have the potential to pierce one’s heart. So do bitter arguments, moments of despair. So do moments of great joy, like decorating our Christmas tree last night in a period of time that felt truly blessed.
I have made it a priority during Advent to allow my heart to be pierced. Each morning when T is working a 7 to 7:30 shift, happens at least twice, but usually three mornings a week, I am rising with her, reading from Chodron, getting her off to work. And then I retreat until 7:30, when I always go to the gym. This gives me an extra 1.5 hours to myself 2-3 times a week. During the once-a-month back-to-back weekend shifts she’ll be working, I rise with her at 5:00 and go straight to my retreat until 9:00, when S usually wakes on weekends.
This ritual is transforming me in the same way that my gym time transformed my life about a year ago. My daily work out has made me stronger and more aware of my body; this time to myself is helping me to keep my heart open, to stay aware of my own feelings and of the feelings of those around me. I am not shutting down quite as often; I am noticing more in my surroundings. I’m realizing how much anxiety I carry around with me—and learning to simply pay attention, to be curious about what causes it, rather than to insist that I need to stop being anxious right now.
I began this ritual on the last day of November as a way to welcome Advent and to lodge a new habit into my routine with plenty of time for it become habitual before the new year—a kind of pre-New Year’s resolution. By 8:30, I had meditated, painfully aware of my monkey mind and the amount of anxiety in my body. I had read my usual spiritual morning readings, journaled for longer than usual, watched the sky go from licorice-black to turquoise to light lavender—then, I wrote a poem, the first in years, I think, or at least months.
Every so often I became anxious about all there was to do—so many work-related tasks, cleaning the house, balancing the checkbook. But I let myself claim the time as my own. I let myself be present in the present moment. Let myself write a poem, read, just sit watching the sky. At the end, I felt real and whole and like a new person after only three hours.
I have returned, again and again since then, to this ritual. I am learning, as a result, what Advent actually means. As a family, we are lighting our Advent candles, putting stars on our Advent candle, and discussing short readings each night. We’re making a family gift wall--writing down gifts we have to give to the world. Our wall is filling up with words like patience and deep listening and an open heart.
These rituals give shape to our collective waiting—but when I am alone, I seem to prefer to just sit. I sit and wait and sometimes I want to write, sometimes to do nothing. This in and of itself is a different kind of shaping. It’s like molding clay into a wide-rimmed cup. Come, do what you will with me, God. I am opening myself by being present in the silence, as present as I can be. Whenever my mind wanders to what I should be doing instead of this, I try to bring it back to the present moment. This scene out this window. This chair, this table, this house.
Advent is about waiting—but for what? Yes, we can be certain the baby is coming, that Christmas is coming. We know how the story begins and ends and is replayed again and again through each liturgical year. But we can’t know what the holidays will mean for us this year, exactly. We can’t know what will happen for sure in the coming year. And so we learn to wait without knowing what we are waiting for. We learn to open up small spaces within the darkness for light to get in.
I tend not to write during periods of transition, when I probably need to write more than any other time. Making our two person family a three person family required a lot of attention to S and T (and not enough attention to myself and my writing). Day by day, we have been working on expanding old rituals and building new ones, navigating unexpected challenges, and facing our fears head on. We’ve been learning and growing together, sometimes traumatically, and sometimes in a slow, steady, beautiful rhythm, depending on the day. We’ve been returning again and again to the question of how we can best care for ourselves, each other, and the broader world.
It would have been easy at many times in the last five months to give up. Living together, building a new family, planning a wedding, seeking and finding a new job (for T) and continuing to navigate ever more complex projects at work (for me)—none of this has been easy.
Five months in, things have not gotten any easier, exactly. But I am becoming aware, as is fitting for this season, of the light available even in the darkness. I am noticing negative patterns shifting, more gentleness, more compassion. Making decisions together is becoming more natural. Arguments are easier to navigate. Each of our hearts is softening. I become daily more sure I want to get married—but not because I want things to get better, or to be easier, and not even because I want to hold onto someone for the rest of my life. I am becoming more sure I want to get married because I am learning that true, forever love is anything but certain—that nothing is actually ever certain--but that making a commitment to live as best we can together, and supporting each other in the journey, is worth it anyway. Growing together and pushing each other to grow in new ways, even when painful, is worth it anyway.
And so we move forward as best we can. We love compassionately and act for peace and justice as best we can.
I am learning, slowly and surely, to be comfortable with uncertainty. That is the name of a book by Pema Chodron that T and I are reading from each morning and reviewing every night. We have read it, and most other books by Chodron, before, and we discovered early in our relationship that we were both devoted to, moved, and challenged by her work. But like all good books, it is one worth returning to, and reading it together has helped me to better internalize its lessons.
What does it mean to be comfortable with uncertainty? It means being truly open and curious about whatever happens next. The sound of the train in the distance, the slowly brightening sky, the holiday lights that are showing up in unexpected places—all of these relatively mundane occurances have the potential to pierce one’s heart. So do bitter arguments, moments of despair. So do moments of great joy, like decorating our Christmas tree last night in a period of time that felt truly blessed.
I have made it a priority during Advent to allow my heart to be pierced. Each morning when T is working a 7 to 7:30 shift, happens at least twice, but usually three mornings a week, I am rising with her, reading from Chodron, getting her off to work. And then I retreat until 7:30, when I always go to the gym. This gives me an extra 1.5 hours to myself 2-3 times a week. During the once-a-month back-to-back weekend shifts she’ll be working, I rise with her at 5:00 and go straight to my retreat until 9:00, when S usually wakes on weekends.
This ritual is transforming me in the same way that my gym time transformed my life about a year ago. My daily work out has made me stronger and more aware of my body; this time to myself is helping me to keep my heart open, to stay aware of my own feelings and of the feelings of those around me. I am not shutting down quite as often; I am noticing more in my surroundings. I’m realizing how much anxiety I carry around with me—and learning to simply pay attention, to be curious about what causes it, rather than to insist that I need to stop being anxious right now.
I began this ritual on the last day of November as a way to welcome Advent and to lodge a new habit into my routine with plenty of time for it become habitual before the new year—a kind of pre-New Year’s resolution. By 8:30, I had meditated, painfully aware of my monkey mind and the amount of anxiety in my body. I had read my usual spiritual morning readings, journaled for longer than usual, watched the sky go from licorice-black to turquoise to light lavender—then, I wrote a poem, the first in years, I think, or at least months.
Every so often I became anxious about all there was to do—so many work-related tasks, cleaning the house, balancing the checkbook. But I let myself claim the time as my own. I let myself be present in the present moment. Let myself write a poem, read, just sit watching the sky. At the end, I felt real and whole and like a new person after only three hours.
I have returned, again and again since then, to this ritual. I am learning, as a result, what Advent actually means. As a family, we are lighting our Advent candles, putting stars on our Advent candle, and discussing short readings each night. We’re making a family gift wall--writing down gifts we have to give to the world. Our wall is filling up with words like patience and deep listening and an open heart.
These rituals give shape to our collective waiting—but when I am alone, I seem to prefer to just sit. I sit and wait and sometimes I want to write, sometimes to do nothing. This in and of itself is a different kind of shaping. It’s like molding clay into a wide-rimmed cup. Come, do what you will with me, God. I am opening myself by being present in the silence, as present as I can be. Whenever my mind wanders to what I should be doing instead of this, I try to bring it back to the present moment. This scene out this window. This chair, this table, this house.
Advent is about waiting—but for what? Yes, we can be certain the baby is coming, that Christmas is coming. We know how the story begins and ends and is replayed again and again through each liturgical year. But we can’t know what the holidays will mean for us this year, exactly. We can’t know what will happen for sure in the coming year. And so we learn to wait without knowing what we are waiting for. We learn to open up small spaces within the darkness for light to get in.
Comments