Advent IV: Love

I had to dig a bit to see the Hope, Peace and Joy of Advent this year. I wasn't surprised; it's been another year full of learning experiences. In contrast, once I lit last night's candle, it didn't take me long at all to find where Love has been hanging out.

Love has been a quiet current underpinning my days and nights. It has helped to carry me through the hard days, it's been a source of comfort and strength.

I had no need to go searching for it, it came to me.

My people have been there, all year. Julia came to town twice to help me get through the aftermath of my surgeries. When I didn't ask for help as I neared the end of radiation, my neighbors brought food anyways. When I organized the meal train because I couldn't lift more than 10lbs after this latest surgery, all the slots were filled within a couple of days. And no one forgot about me; I didn't go hungry even once! All the food was delicious, prepared (or ordered in) with love. 

People have sent I'm-thinking-of-you-hang-in-there texts, notes and small gifts. Their care has made this unwanted path easier to walk. I know I am loved. 

I am SO grateful.

The 4th Sunday of Advent was also this year's solstice - the longest night.

A couple of years ago, I checked the schedule showing the time for sunrise and sunset this time of year. I was a bit surprised to find that, while, yes, the days do grow longer from here on out, the increases in daylight are incremental for the next couple of weeks - today we have just 2 more seconds of daylight than we did yesterday.

I took that as a sign, and since then I've taken time to pause a bit myself, mostly between Christmas and New Year's. I've come to like the quiet darkness. I light candles and more candles, rekindling the lights of Advent. I take time to reflect on the happenings of the year that was, on my hopes for the year to come. 

I give thanks that I am here to see yet another year begin. (So far, so good...)

Happy Winter's Solstice!

Advent III: Joy

Some years, there just isn't a lot of Joy hopping out from around the corners of my life. This has been one of those years. I have many memories of grateful moments this year; a few memories of moments of Peace. 

But Joy? Sadly, not so much.

Fortunately for me, my memory extends back past this year of trial, and somewhere in there, a bit dusty and hard to find because the index pointing to their location is rusty and disused, exist my memories of Joy.

Joy is fun. Its effervescent bubbles are stored right there with the memories, and when they come to mind, a few of the bubbles float to the top and pop on the surface, bringing a trace of Joy with them.

*bubble*pop*bubble*pop*

The moment when I first looked into the eyes of my newborn babe(s).  

*bubble*pop*bubble*pop*

Reaching the end of my Camino walk at Finisterre.

*bubble*pop*bubble*pop*

The first time I kissed him. 

*bubble*pop*bubble*pop*

Sitting in the dark, watching the flames flicker and dance, meditating on Joy, I reveled for just a moment in the reflected glow of the memories which slowly, creakily surfaced. I like these memories. They're proof Joy exists, and not just in the abstract. Joy exists for ME. 

And since it has existed in the past, I have no reason to doubt its future appearance.

This thought brings me great comfort.

This, too, shall pass. 
Joy will come again. 
Amen.

Advent II: Peace

Peace sure seems to be in short supply these days. The world has not stopped waging war at any point in recorded history, but in recent years its drumbeats strike louder, closer to my heart.

My learnings tell me it is my choice to seek Peace anyways.

No, I can't affect the outcome of the struggle in Ukraine or the many official actions in my country which trouble my heart. I do not have the money or the contacts or the standing in this world.

But maybe. If I can work to create even a small puddle of Peace in my world, it'll water a bit of ground and some Beauty will sprout. If you'll allow me to change metaphors, perhaps it'll work like the light of the candle, and snuff out a small area of darkness.

I can Hope.

What is Peace anyways?

To me, it is embodied in those moments when, despite the turmoil and challenges of my days, I stop and breathe long enough to listen to the quiet voice. It often quotes Julian of Norwich:

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

Turmoil, anxiety, stress. Oh, my! (Sorry, Wizard of Oz moment there.) 

Let me start again. Turmoil, anxiety and stress aren't going anywhere - but as large as they loom in my days, they are not the whole of my days unless I permit them to be so.

I can choose to accept their existence AND to know Peace also exists somewhere within.

Peace lives in my memories of quiet moments in beautiful places.

Peace lives in my memories of arguments resolved and relationships transformed.

Peace lives in my memories of working in the living soil, connected to the life within its depths.

Peace lives in those moments when I am too tired to continue on, but hear a voice of reassurance, encouraging me to pause and rest for a moment - and to then take one more step.

Peace.

Advent I: Hope

After I sat down on Sunday night and lit the first candle of my Advent wreath, I just sat and watched the small flame flicker for a time. Such a small light. So much dark. Somehow, the small quietly overcame the much, and reached my soul and reignited a flicker of Hope.

Life carries no guarantees. None for me. None for my family and friends. None for the world.

Nobody ever said "treatable" meant this repeat cancer journey would be easy.

But I have today.

I can't undo what radiation has done to my system, but today, I can work on easing the long term damage. Today my mind works. Today my body is allowed to move again. No small blessings, these.

I am grateful to the parts of the Universe which have been working together to ensure I don't lose sight of Hope this year.

Time and again, my burdens feel heavy, and I just want to curl up on the sofa underneath my white fuzzy blanket and make it all go away.

Time and again, when I reach this point, someone unexpectedly reaches out to me, with a text or a card or a small gift or a letter or a phone call, and lets me know I am not forgotten. I am loved.

These gestures make a difference. They give me the oomph to take one more step. 

They are my light in the darkness. 

Such small lights.
Such great power.