On to the New Year

and, as always happens this time of year, I've blinked and Christmas has come and gone. I didn't have the oomph to get to Minnesota this year, which has been a longstanding tradition, but I celebrated with friends, old and new. It was a good Christmas.

Winter's Solstice has passed, and we are in those weeks where the days are technically getting longer, but only by a few seconds each day. It's almost as if the world pauses for a moment to catch its breath before continuing the cycle of life.

The sun rises late, and sets early; hereabouts the skies are often clouded. I find it hard to get myself moving many mornings. (Leave my warm and cozy bed for the cold darkness, why??) This morning I slept in a bit, figuring it would be another snuggle day - I can't ignore the gray, but I can find the silver linings. I am grateful for good books and my soft fuzzy white blanket. For candlelight and hot tea. For a cozy home and reliable furnace.  

I think Someone thought I needed a reminder that this, too, shall pass. When I finally got out of bed and lifted the shade, I was greeted with a glorious sunrise. The color lasted just a few minutes before fading to familiar gray, but the promise has stuck with me. Beauty Is.

One of the things I've found vexing about retirement is how the days all blur together. Even with exercise to bring structure to my days, I still find myself wondering how I spent my time last week as it flew by.

As I was browsing the news the other day, I found an article from someone with the same issue. As a way to combat it, she pauses for just a minute each night to write down one thing that happened that day. Hmm. I used to journal a lot more than I do now - perhaps this is a key. Perhaps if I can start a discipline of sitting for just a few minutes before I turn out the lights and writing down a few words, it will help.

I'm not usually one for New Year's resolutions, but I'm going to give this one a try. Even if (when) I don't do it every night, if I do it more nights than I don't, perhaps it will give me an anchor. It's worth a shot.

Happy New Year!

Advent IV: Love

Unlike my search last week for vestiges of Joy, I felt Love in the room last night, even before I lit the last candle on my Advent wreath. 

This year, Love has been both the cause of my heartache, and its ease.

The cause, because it is only because I love, because I care deeply, that my heart hurts. If I hadn't loved, I wouldn't hurt. Simple as that. But, had I more closely guarded my heart, I would also have missed out on the best parts of life. The pain is part and parcel of the love. I don't have to like it, I just have to accept it.

The ease, because like the time I found my own cancer, Love has rallied. It has been present as I did my best to help Kate through her cancer's recurrence.

My friends have been there, walking with me as I walk with her. Helping me to figure out the next right step to take.

I am not alone. I don't have words for how deeply the knowledge comforts me.

She is not alone. Her partner, her daughter, her friends, have all stepped up to take care of life's to-do lists, so she can concentrate on healing. 

There is light in the darkness, beauty along the hard paths.

Love Is.

Kate Update: In typical Kate fashion, her body did not react well to the insult of radiation, and her skin became reactive to touch; itchy red lines would appear any and every time something rubbed against her body. Then, for reasons unknown, she developed a bad case of vertigo in reaction to the antihistamines she was taking to control the itching. She spent a week in bed moving as little as possible. But this, too, has passed. She had her last treatment a week ago, and is slowly regaining her feet. Sleeping a lot (no surprise). The dizziness has much improved, and the itches are easing. *whew*

Next: she'll start the series of shots and pills designed to shut down estrogen production in her body. i.e. instant menopause. *sigh* One step at a time.

Treatable. Yes.

Advent III: Joy

Hope sustains me in the darkness.

Peace calms my soul.

It's not so hard for me to claim these gifts; they ground and steady my feet for the journey.

Joy?

It is effervescent, fleeting, airy. It doesn't seek to help me ground and center myself, rather, it irrationally launches my heart into the heights. There, at the apex of the leap, my inner camera takes a quick snapshot of the beauty, which I then store deep within, tucked away with other treasured memories. Stumbling across these moments, even years later, often brings a wistful tear or two to my eye. I suppose it's because I'm greedy - I so would love to stay in the moments; to not let life carry me on past them. 

The pink candle in the wreath symbolizes the joy of anticipation. The end of this season of waiting for the child to be born, waiting for the days to begin to grow longer, waiting for the cycle of the seasons to begin anew, is near. That's a good thing, eh?

I'm not feeling it this year. Which frustrates me.

But I lit the taper anyways and watched it burn for a while, reflecting on the concept of Joy, since the reality was clearly not within my grasp. As I sat, the echoes of Joys past started bubbling up, just in case I had begun to forget how it feels to be joyful, and needed a reminder.

And then, maybe, just maybe, a new, tentative, bubble appeared.

This, too, shall pass.

All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

Yes.

Advent II: Peace

"Yeah, uh-huh," says my cynical side. "Peace? In this day and age?"

Hmmm...

As I watched the light of the candle, I decided the Peace of Advent is probably not the kind where one is at Peace because everything is hunky-dory, with smiles all around, at the Happy Unicorn Rainbow Farm up on the hill. 

As I watched the flame flicker, backed by the light of Hope, I figured it's more likely to be the sort of Peace where you are still for a moment; at Peace despite all the things.

It's the kind of Peace I find when I relinquish my efforts to control what's outside of me, and instead turn my attention to controlling my reaction to what's happening in my world. As Viktor Frankl taught me so well, it's the only thing I can control anyways. 

(This is not because of any lack of effort on my part, I assure you. Some part of me is still convinced that if I can just round up all the ducks and get them in the right order, I'll definitely be able to bend the will of the world to my hand. I have not been successful thus far, but there's always tomorrow.)

When I am able to accept those things I cannot change, when I am able to take one more step in the direction of changing those things I can, I, despite all the things, find a measure of Peace.

This is never as easy for me as I think it should be and I've been actively working on it for several decades. I've had to let go of dreams aplenty, say goodbye to too many of the people I love. It's been hard!

Time and again, I find myself focused on clinging, eyes squinched and laser-focused, to my vision of what I want to happen as I travel along life's river. Then, when whatever-it-was I was busy clutching slips from my grasp anyhow, I look up to find I've missed part of my precious journey. There's no going back to claim it.

No, I don't get what I want any more often when I give up my efforts to control the flow of events, but when I let go and allow the water to carry me along, I sure swallow a lot less of it. When I'm not busy fighting the current, I can relax a bit, open my eyes, widen my field of vision, and catch more of the Beauty of my journey. 

I'll keep working on it - if only because those moments of Peace are so comforting.

Advent I: Hope

Poof! It's December!

This year, I knew I would need the Advent Candle tradition to anchor my soul, and so made a point of buying the appropriate tapers ahead of time. (Score one for self-care.)

Last night I tidied up my dining room table (which, despite my best efforts, generally has a collection of whatsit strewn across its surface), dimmed the lights, and put on some quiet music. I brewed myself a cup of tea, lit the first of the Advent candles, and settled in to watch the flame.

Hope. Such a small light. So much darkness.

As I sat and watched, a few tears escaped and trickled down my cheeks. This has been a hard year. Hope feels risky. If I dare to hope, I might hope in vain. And it hurts when a flame of hope gets snuffed out. 

I am afraid. There are so many dark portents whirling in the world's winds - both the larger world, and the world of my life. I was tempted to sink down and let the darkness take over.

But that's the thing about light. Even a small light dispels the dark. Fear wants me to believe the darkness is greater, but it's not. Emily Dickinson's words came to me:

Hope is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all

I took a deep breath. "I can choose," I told myself. 

I can both acknowledge the Fear and know it is not the only Power.

I opened the door to my heart, listened to the song of Hope. 
I watched the darkness wither down, losing much of its power in the light of the candle.

Hope, anyways. 
Yes.