It's December 18th, and winter will soon be here. Can you believe it's still autumn? If you are an astrological or weather buff, you know that the upcoming Winter Solstice marks the exact moment when half of the Earth is tilted the farthest away from the sun. I'm just learning this, but if you stand outside at noon on December 22nd this year and look at your shadow, it will extend longer than any other shape you cast the entire year. (If you are a victim of age-related shrinkage, you don't want to miss out on this unique opportunity.)
The darkness that comes with this season can undoubtedly stir up gloom, uncertainties, and various causes of alarm. Everyone worries. Keats' poetic image of December as drear nighted captures my experience of the dark this year. I'm four months into recovery from the ankle I broke in early August, and I'm still trying to determine when I'll have the muscle strength to take a beloved, long walk. The weather will likely be cold on Friday, and even if there is sun, I'll probably be holed up writing my next post or immersed in a book and forget to go outside and engage in shadow play. I have moments when I grumble about my slow progress, even as I grouse when we turn our lights on at four in the afternoon.
I'm embarrassed by my wimp factor when I reflect on how Stone Age people were so utterly dependent on the sun for farming. They revered its cycles and built stone structures like Stonehenge out of their precise understanding of the sun's timing and movement. Research indicates that, as time passed, showcasing the midwinter sunset was ceremonial and sacred. The post and lintel structure is too rudimentary to be called a cathedral. Still, all these thousands of years later, it stands as evidence of how early peoples conceived of a link between the divine and human worlds.
Koans, parables, enigmatic stories, and mysteries abound as ways various world cultures explore such existential questions. Christmas is one of those mysteries, and because of my injury, I have lots more time to ponder its meaning again. Unknowns ignite the intrigue of any good mystery, and this year, I find myself puzzling over the incarnation; a simple family, Joseph, Mary, and Jesus, connects heaven and Earth; that which is ordinary begets the divine.
When I was little, our family tradition was to sing Happy Birthday to Jesus before we opened our presents from Santa. We gathered around a ten-inch figure of the Baby Jesus. Because it was wax, we weren't allowed to touch it, and my mother only took it out at Christmas time. Its exquisite coloration and delicate features, the care with which my mother handled this beautiful sculpture, and the reverence with which she led our song were a big part of my faith formation. Most significantly, my mother was a great storyteller. At the drop of a hat, she'd weave marvelous stories about family life at Jesus' house: Jesus making his bed, doing chores, playing baseball with his friends, climbing trees, floating boats in the river, eating cookies that his mother had made, finding it hard to do what he was told. He was a kid; it sounded good to me.
A spoon-fed Catholic, I've learned to pick up forks, knives, and other resources to keep me nourished spiritually. Madeleine L'Engle, with the authority of a master storyteller, labels Christian mysteries as Glorious Impossibles. Possible things, she says, are easy to believe. But, a loving God who enters history as a child to transform the world and bring lasting peace? These days, in its beguiling simplicity, the Nativity story moves me away from the rational out into other ways of knowing. When I sing a familiar Christmas Carol or read the scriptural account, I'm pulled into awe and the territory of my heart. In that frame of mind, I put questions aside and readily join carolers who celebrate the mystery that both heaven and nature sing a three-part harmony of hope, love, and joy.
The writings of Thomas Keating, the late Cistercian, also inspire me. He refers to Christian mysteries as Unknowables and offers Centering Prayer Meditation as a practice that optimizes our ability to open to them. The refrain Silent Night/Holy Night fits his style. Amid the holiday rush, I picture him raising two fingers to his mouth while he whispers a calming Shhhhhhhhh. Keating puts our efforts toward peace on Earth into an evolutionary context. As an infant child develops slowly over time, so can I open into the revelation of religious mysteries. For him, the ultimate goal is to realize that our deepest self is God's [open, loving] presence in us, and the intentional practice of contemplative prayer awakens this depth dimension within. I like his practical reminder that Neuroscience shows that contemplative practices modify the brain in healthy ways.
It's easy to put the concept of the divine into the context of the extreme, the wowie zowie. That can scare me and put me off. In the aftermath of my injury, familiar dualities wobble; certainties meld like flames fanned by the winds of question. Day/night, good/bad, dark/light - they all blur. These days, I count on simple blessings. I see hits and misses more clearly and have begun to find myself in the commonplace of the divine. I’ve seen no burning bushes but notice more the brilliance of books, certain songs, a sunset, or the wonderfulness of a little child. In the middle of enjoying a well-cooked meal or during a lovely personal exchange, my heart knows deep down that this is life at its finest. It doesn't get any better than this. Is this what we mean by Emmanuel?
In addition to formal meditation practices, I'm more open to how life organically offers chances to shift states of mind out of everyday distractions and concerns and into alternative ways of being. For some, it's the quiet of a hunting blind, but it could also be a mindless sit in front of a warm fire. Others are lulled by kneading bread or the soothing, repetitive motion of needlework. Long walks in the forest, as does the trance of being lost in a marvelous book, can make all the difference. I just might come up with a list of 101 ways to begin again: to recollect, move through darkness, and open more to the fullness of light. |
| Calm and Bright |
ReplyDeleteBeautiful meditation on why we’re here.