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 can both acknowledge the Fear and know it is not the only Power.
I watched the darkness wither down, losing much of its power in the light of the candle.
Yes.
