friday stillness

I went for a walk this afternoon. I passed this defiant December rose, bending and shaking in the cold wind, still smooth-petaled amongst her wrinkled and graying sisters.

A brilliant fushcia rose, waving to get my attention on such a wintry day. She was not asking me to smell her so much as marvel at her. To open a door wide, and let her in.

Lately I seem to be tripping over myself as I run through the to-do list in my mind. Surely I have been missing out on countless other things of beauty calling out my name as I rush past. The coming weeks seem overstuffed with packages to send, gifts to prepare, birthdays to remember, travel plans to make. However will I do it all? Regular life maintenance kind of hovers near the too-much line for me. Add some preparations for fun and holiday cheer and the precarious balance begins to tip.

So today, I'm trying to slow down my forward rush into the problem-laden future. I'm trying to let the soft petals of Advent touch my face, because Advent involves a different sort of preparation. It's about waiting for God with one's whole heart, which makes the world around me - December roses included - new and strange. Intentional anticipation clears a space for the present moment. There is nothing burdensome about this emotional gesture, though it is so hard to make.

But we have our little calendar to remind me of the gift of each and every regular, messy day. And when I can find moments like this afternoon, I realize that this season that can so easily give way to anxiety is at its heart a gentle time of year. The sky is soft gray and purple. At times I feel a quiet openness as we move into winter, like the birds’ nests that are exposed now that the leaves have all fallen. There is a stillness in the season, a hush in the air that whispers: don’t be scared. Just wait.