ADVENT
ad·vent
/ˈadˌvent/
noun
the arrival of a notable person, thing, or event.
“the advent of television” (languages.oup.com)
Or
“Christmas represents the divine child born in each of us and the divine attributes we can develop as we learn to express our God nature in human form. The four Sundays of Advent proclaim aspects of our divine nature—hope and faith, peace, love, and joy.”
(Unity.org)
There’s always a certain amount of shuffling involved in getting our Christmas “jam” on in Whistler. Not having been here for several weeks means I see what I’d been ignoring during the outdoor-centric summer months. Hence the minute I get to the cabin I am seized by a de-cluttering frenzy. It’s as if a subconscious part of me is sprucing up the stable for the advent of a “notable person, thing or event”. In my case, the impending arrival of a couple dozen family members for a week of skiing, eating, sleeping and general mayhem. This requires no small feat (I typoed fear) of organizing, provisioning, delegating and holiday decorating.
Space has to be carved out for bags upon bags of groceries and unwrapped Christmas gifts. Not to mention places to put piles of coats and heaps of boots. Ski (and other outgrown) clothes that have been scrunched in the backs of closets get unearthed and redistributed, if we’re lucky, so as not to pose a fire hazard in the coming months. Fire is on my mind this morning as I examine the slight damage to our eaves left by an electrical fire caused by rain shorting-out the plug-in of the Christmas lights. Yikes.
Not wanting to dwell on the spectre of our thirty-year-old wood cabin going up in flames, I instead steer my focus to the ceramic salt and pepper shakers in the shape of loons that I just discovered in the back of a kitchen cupboard. They’re identical to the pair I sent to my brother as a memento of our visit to Algonquin Park last fall. The sight of them brings back images of morning mist hovering moodily over the glassy lake, the haunting call of a solitary loon disturbing the stillness…
Letting my memory take me to such a place of calm and solitude creates the mental space needed to put this hectic season in perspective. I’m reminded of a teaching story in which a student complains to her teacher about her many responsibilities. Leading the student to the shore of a lake, the teacher hands her a cup of salty water and asks her to take a sip. Doing so, the student immediately splutters and spits out the bitter mouthful. Then the teacher pours the salty water into the lake, stirs it around a bit, and scoops out a second cupful. This time the mouthful goes down much more smoothly. The moral of the story?
Expand your sense of things.
This morning, expanding my sense of things starts with counting my blessings, thankful for all the help others have given me to make this holiday not only do-able but a joyful, meaningful week. Not to mention gratitude for the slightly fire-damaged roof under which we lay our sweet heads. I’m even taking a healthy pride in what I’ve managed to pull off thus far. (Think laying tracks in front of a moving train). The dinner I made the night some of our family arrived comes to mind. Scrounging in the freezer I pulled out a big chicken put pie and popped it in the oven while I combined two frozen soups, a can of diced tomatoes, a cup of salsa and a splash of white wine to serve sixteen on our first Whistler evening. The story of the sage and the student reminded me to savor the mayhem as much as I savor the times of solitude. They all add up to a well-rounded life.
And, while a little late to the advent party, it’s my intention to celebrate this holiday by emanating the faith, hope, peace, love and joy for which the Christian Advent calendar was meant.
Now to gargle with that salt water. Lest I use up the free world’s supply of tissue for the sinus bug I seem to be hosting.