FuelIn the Christian path that I follow, today begins the season of Advent - a time of waiting, of preparation, of reflection. It's my favorite liturgical season, and as happens in other traditions, the "new year" it begins is a little out of step and out of time with our January 1st annual commencement. It helps me think about time differently. Two years ago, as part of my family's Advent practice, we turned to a book of reflections that has burrowed into our collective hearts. My son is a budding zoologist, and as my wife and I searched for readings suitable for an animal-loving seven-year-old, we discovered Gayle Boss' All Creation Waits: The Advent Mystery of New Beginnings. A series of twenty-four meditations, each chapter opens the life of a particular creature - a red fox, a wood frog, a chickadee - as they prepare for winter. Each night starting December 1, we light a candle and listen to the author read her quiet words, and we wonder, we ponder, we prepare ourselves. As you enter whatever season of quiet or noise, of preparation and anticipation, consider the example of the painted turtle: “And then, pulled into her shell, encased in darkness, she settled into a deep stillness. Her heart slowed - and slowed - almost to stopping. Her body temperature dropped - and stopped just short of freezing. Now, beneath a layer of mud, beneath the weight of frigid water and its skin of ice and skim of snow, everything in her has gone so still she doesn't need to breathe. And anyway, the iced-over pond will soon be empty of oxygen. Sunk in its bottom-mud, for six months she will not draw air into her lungs. To survive a cold that would kill her, or slow her so that predators would kill her, she slows herself beyond breath in a place where breath is not possible. And waits. As ice locks in the marsh water and howling squalls batter its reeds and brush, beneath it all she waits. It is her one work, and it is not easy… It's this radical simplicity that will save her. And deep within it, at the heart of her stillness, something she has no need to name, but something we might call trust: that one day, yes, the world will warm again, and with it, her life.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Right now I'm waiting for my mother to die. She recently began receiving hospice care for Alzheimer's, a diagnosis our family received more than five years ago. And five years is a long time to wait for someone you love to die. And yet we wait. And in that time, time itself has reversed for my mom. One of the strange things about this disease is the way it erases a person's time, where they become like a mental Benjamin Button slowly moving backward through memory. I haven't decided if this is just cruel - for taking away memory is to take away a central part of ourselves - or an unexpected blessing. It seems that moving backward through time might be easier when you aren't aware it's happening. And yet we wait. And in that time, time has marched on for me. My son was three when his Grammie was diagnosed; he's now nine. I'm now closer to fifty than forty, and more aware of both how quickly time passes, and how in waiting it seems to stand oh, so still. I don't tend towards impatience, but I don't like this kind of waiting. And yet I'm learning in the waiting. To savor each moment of time that runs forward. To grow towards and into life, pushing my roots ever deeper into the soil of my heart. That time will tell whether the time I spent within this wondrous creation left things better than before I was. Some day, the waiting will be over.
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