Anchor and Stars
I spent much of a full week of Advent in bed, sleeping sometimes fitfully and sometimes restfully. It has been years since I was this sick, and I don't remember the last time I went to a doctor and left the pharmacy with medications. While I am aware of how blessed I am (compared to so many others I love) to know this bout of pneumonia, as awful as it felt, would heal if I just got rest, it took awhile to fully accept this.
Some things, of course, still had to get done. I had to get up and get everyone off to school and daycare--then I would sleep until it was time to make supper, then sleep again until the next morning. I would read only the briefest updates on the terrible state of our country and world--and I may have made one angry call to a certain congressperson in a raspy, rambling series of words I don't remember--but mostly I disengaged. I needed rest, even from being present to the world's news. I did the only thing I absolutely had to do for work, grade my students' finals and post their grades, in an overly generous stupor.
Anyway, there was no way to fully rest, but in those hours between wake and sleep I kept the image of an anchor--my word of 2019--on my heart as much as possible, pondering its mystery, allowing it to take shape however it might. I was conscious of this, and unconscious of it at the same time. That is how the mysterious in-between places feel.
I had been encouraged by my spiritual director to simply stay present to whoever showed up. My mother was there, holding me in the cradle of the Big Dipper. The stars swirled into the image of Anchor, then Dipper, then anchor again. My aunts came, from both my mom's side and my dad's, dancing around me joyfully while I slept there. And then, quite unexpectedly, my dad showed up in the midst of that woman-energy and took the lead, clasping my mother's hand. How happy he was--the deep-down happy he was capable of but too often couldn't reach, my legacy to wrestle.
Perhaps the veil is always thinner than we realize, but in this season it seems especially so. My ancestors came and went, gently lifting my lungs and heart from my body to cradle them, then put them back. Perhaps the thin veil has to do with the slow descent into the darkness and the invitation to rest and wait that comes with the Solstice. Or perhaps the fact that both my parents made it breathlessly through the holidays one last time before dying in Jan and Feb, 10 and 36 years ago in 2020. Perhaps it's because in less than a month I will reach the age my mother was when she died.
Yes, our loved ones hover and stir and dance with us always, but especially when we are on the cusp of something new--new cycle of light, new year.
And in these times of holy waiting, holy transitioning, we hold the deep pain of the past year close to our hearts. For me, this has been about learning in a very visceral way how little control we have. For someone like me who has chosen a calling of radical hospitality, it has meant recognizing that while we can hope that unconditional love can transform a life, we can't expect a particular outcome or timeline. Eventually we must come to believe that no act of love is ever wasted, even in the moments of deepest betrayal.
The story is never over, and we are all called to love even when loving makes no sense.
There have been deep losses and pain this year, but also deep joy. Young people connecting, growing, learning to trust. Our son adopted. Conversations focused on healing. Moments when people showed up in exactly the way we needed at exactly the right time. A daughter finally taking her voice back. Beloveds of our past who have come back to us to seek forgiveness and connection.
But this is also the season of being fully present to the present. For the first time a baby and his mother are living with us. On some Advent mornings recently, just as I was beginning to feel better, his mother has gone to work long before dawn and I have taken him into my arms and held him while reading Advent reflections. On some mornings he's been quiet; on others, giggly. Sometimes he wants to bounce, sometimes sleep. Slowly he taught me to pay attention to the little rhythms of his body, and my own, to open to what might come.
On one morning I lit one of the nativity sets we have to meditate on it, and he leaned in his face close to that manger that transcends space and time. His face glowed in the darkness and he smiled, reaching his little fist toward the tiny baby, symbol of a new order, a new way of loving. He unfurled his fingers.
Which brings me back to Anchor, my word of the year, which has accompanied me through this year of the most dramatic ups and downs.
One summer morning not so many months ago, my son and I headed out in a canoe to do some fishing. I rowed out toward the center of the lake in silence. I was thinking of my father, and my uncles, all of them fishermen by trade or hobby. I was remembering going out with my sister and father on the pond across the street from our childhood home. I was thinking about an upcoming court case at which we would testify against an old friend. I was thinking about starting a new role at work. I was thinking about everything except what was happening right then.
My son looked out toward the east where the sun was rising, a light pink curtain.
Suddenly, he said, "Stop right here."
"Is everything OK?" I asked, as his voice held a tinge of urgency.
"Yes," he said. "I just feel like this is where we're supposed to stop and rest."
And so, I put the anchor down, and lay back, and watched him cast out his line. I closed my eyes and saw the imprint of watery sunlight behind my lids, a warm glow not unlike the day-after-solstice sunrise I watched with him and the baby just a few nights ago, when I first started writing this, not knowing what it would be about.
As we transition from Advent to Christmas, from waiting to relishing the 12 holy days of the season, may you feel your ancestors dancing. May you sense those beloveds, both those estranged and sleeping in the next room, those who have betrayed you and those who have held you up, close by. May your grief hold itself warm and unhidden on your heart, and your joy also. May you put your anchor down for awhile, and rest. May you learn again that no love is ever wasted, no story ever over. Amen.
Some things, of course, still had to get done. I had to get up and get everyone off to school and daycare--then I would sleep until it was time to make supper, then sleep again until the next morning. I would read only the briefest updates on the terrible state of our country and world--and I may have made one angry call to a certain congressperson in a raspy, rambling series of words I don't remember--but mostly I disengaged. I needed rest, even from being present to the world's news. I did the only thing I absolutely had to do for work, grade my students' finals and post their grades, in an overly generous stupor.
Anyway, there was no way to fully rest, but in those hours between wake and sleep I kept the image of an anchor--my word of 2019--on my heart as much as possible, pondering its mystery, allowing it to take shape however it might. I was conscious of this, and unconscious of it at the same time. That is how the mysterious in-between places feel.
I had been encouraged by my spiritual director to simply stay present to whoever showed up. My mother was there, holding me in the cradle of the Big Dipper. The stars swirled into the image of Anchor, then Dipper, then anchor again. My aunts came, from both my mom's side and my dad's, dancing around me joyfully while I slept there. And then, quite unexpectedly, my dad showed up in the midst of that woman-energy and took the lead, clasping my mother's hand. How happy he was--the deep-down happy he was capable of but too often couldn't reach, my legacy to wrestle.
Perhaps the veil is always thinner than we realize, but in this season it seems especially so. My ancestors came and went, gently lifting my lungs and heart from my body to cradle them, then put them back. Perhaps the thin veil has to do with the slow descent into the darkness and the invitation to rest and wait that comes with the Solstice. Or perhaps the fact that both my parents made it breathlessly through the holidays one last time before dying in Jan and Feb, 10 and 36 years ago in 2020. Perhaps it's because in less than a month I will reach the age my mother was when she died.
Yes, our loved ones hover and stir and dance with us always, but especially when we are on the cusp of something new--new cycle of light, new year.
And in these times of holy waiting, holy transitioning, we hold the deep pain of the past year close to our hearts. For me, this has been about learning in a very visceral way how little control we have. For someone like me who has chosen a calling of radical hospitality, it has meant recognizing that while we can hope that unconditional love can transform a life, we can't expect a particular outcome or timeline. Eventually we must come to believe that no act of love is ever wasted, even in the moments of deepest betrayal.
The story is never over, and we are all called to love even when loving makes no sense.
There have been deep losses and pain this year, but also deep joy. Young people connecting, growing, learning to trust. Our son adopted. Conversations focused on healing. Moments when people showed up in exactly the way we needed at exactly the right time. A daughter finally taking her voice back. Beloveds of our past who have come back to us to seek forgiveness and connection.
But this is also the season of being fully present to the present. For the first time a baby and his mother are living with us. On some Advent mornings recently, just as I was beginning to feel better, his mother has gone to work long before dawn and I have taken him into my arms and held him while reading Advent reflections. On some mornings he's been quiet; on others, giggly. Sometimes he wants to bounce, sometimes sleep. Slowly he taught me to pay attention to the little rhythms of his body, and my own, to open to what might come.
On one morning I lit one of the nativity sets we have to meditate on it, and he leaned in his face close to that manger that transcends space and time. His face glowed in the darkness and he smiled, reaching his little fist toward the tiny baby, symbol of a new order, a new way of loving. He unfurled his fingers.
Which brings me back to Anchor, my word of the year, which has accompanied me through this year of the most dramatic ups and downs.
One summer morning not so many months ago, my son and I headed out in a canoe to do some fishing. I rowed out toward the center of the lake in silence. I was thinking of my father, and my uncles, all of them fishermen by trade or hobby. I was remembering going out with my sister and father on the pond across the street from our childhood home. I was thinking about an upcoming court case at which we would testify against an old friend. I was thinking about starting a new role at work. I was thinking about everything except what was happening right then.
My son looked out toward the east where the sun was rising, a light pink curtain.
Suddenly, he said, "Stop right here."
"Is everything OK?" I asked, as his voice held a tinge of urgency.
"Yes," he said. "I just feel like this is where we're supposed to stop and rest."
And so, I put the anchor down, and lay back, and watched him cast out his line. I closed my eyes and saw the imprint of watery sunlight behind my lids, a warm glow not unlike the day-after-solstice sunrise I watched with him and the baby just a few nights ago, when I first started writing this, not knowing what it would be about.
As we transition from Advent to Christmas, from waiting to relishing the 12 holy days of the season, may you feel your ancestors dancing. May you sense those beloveds, both those estranged and sleeping in the next room, those who have betrayed you and those who have held you up, close by. May your grief hold itself warm and unhidden on your heart, and your joy also. May you put your anchor down for awhile, and rest. May you learn again that no love is ever wasted, no story ever over. Amen.
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