Advent 1.7: Empty streets

Empty streets transform a day.

Walk in the middle of the road if you like, zig zag freely back and forth, no need to keep close to the curb. Hear the quiet of no cars, no whir of traffic for miles, the reminder that we can slow down and take a break--though sometimes it takes an outside force to make us do it. Stop and talk to neighbors that you didn't know you had, witness the silent comings and goings of fellow footprints and pawprints, all exploring the sudden shift in your everyday space.

You really see the world for the world when it's freshly frosted with ice--the leaves and branches are more pronounced, the sounds of birds and squirrels and children's giggles echo through the trees unbarred, no urban noise. You grow aware of your cheeks, your ears, your nose, all flushed with chill. You look up at the sky and down at your feet. You tread carefully but not fearfully. You're excited to go forward, to see what's next in your path. You pay attention.

Empty streets in Advent; such an unexpected gift.

Advent 1.6: Iron ice and flashing flame.

God of ice and God of flames:
You feel the frigid wind and the roaring heat.
You know the fear of sleeping on the frozen sidewalks.
You know the ache of fleeing from a beloved home engulfed.
You feel, you know, because you too have walked on this earth.
Sometimes it is hard to believe that you are greater than these magnificent and pounding hearts of nature
that bring us peace and chaos, horror and awe.
How can there be something, anything, more powerful than these,
such capacity to destroy, the ability to bring life to a sudden halt?
It is difficult to fathom. And mostly, trying to fathom it often falls by the wayside.
I know I cannot fully understand, and so I do not try.
But it is easier, sometimes, when I try to believe that you dwelt among us.
That you took your power and might and placed it like a shining beacon in a woman's son.
(I think of Ron and the Deluminator, if I'm being honest.)
That the all-knowing matchless strength met the day-to-day imperfect vulnerability.
That they intertwined and walked on land and sea; shook hands, and blessed, and laughed through tears.
Yes, sometimes it is easier to believe, depending on the day, or the doubt, or the disaster.
We your people are overcome by your nature, your wind and snow and fire;
God in human clothes can feel hard to find.
Until you see neighbors being neighbors, even when houses have burned to ash.
Until you smell the food being served and hear the cheer being shared with those who have lost any home they had.
Until the nice person one lane over lets you merge slowly on an icy road.
Until you look for handshakes, blessings, laughter through tears.
Then, for a moment, it becomes easier to believe that you were here, and are,
even in the midst of iron ice and flashing flame.
Amen.
 

Advent 1.5: Another cup

Last night I get home and *definitely* don't feel like going out again: cold, dark, drizzly, gas tank close to E, not to mention introvert insides and a tail flopping, belly rub addicted canine to my left.

But I suck up all the extrovert I have, all the small courages it takes to get through a day (and a night), (and a week), (and a month), re-zip my boots, re-fill my car, head across town with my laptop in tow.

Two hours, two pizza slices, heaps of kale salad later I feel full, satisfied, know it has been worth it--the food, the company, hearing my words and ideas processed and uplifted by once strangers, now friends. A reminder that this work matters, that I have the space in mind and heart.

Our shining bright hostess, so giving of her home and time, offers tea, which I never turn down: the warm slide down my throat, stomach settling into ease, the heat soaking my bones--what I need whether it's an early morning, slow afternoon, or wind-down night. And she says that she will serve tea the Uzbek way.

The joy with which she says it gives me joy, her family legacy alive; she pours the boiling water into a teapot, brings out cheerful cups, no handles, painted in brilliantly detailed blues and greens. The first pour into the cup goes back into the pot--deepening the flavor, she explains, bringing out the jasmine scent.

I savor the first helping, then request a second, gladly given. The tradition, she tells us, is to first fill the cup only halfway--so the guest will ask for another cup and stay longer, so the tea isn't too hot to drink, so the host's generosity has the chance to flourish. Length and breadth, warmth and depth.

A dear friend just happened to send me an excerpt from Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog today:

"...in all this sound and fury, amidst eruptions and undertows, while the world goes its merry way, bursts into flames, tears itself apart and is reborn: human life continues to throb.

So, let us drink a cup of tea."

Driving home, the streets are empty and the front lawns beam with lights.

I'm not sure what this has to do with Advent, but I wanted to tell you about it.