Of things to come
My dictionary in-forms me that the original meaning of “Advent” is “the coming of a notable person, thing or event.”
Whether secular or religious, the sense of something coming is absolutely palpable in the air these days. Our nights and midmorning hours are much crisper, cooler and gentle to us all. There are even nights when I have found the need to wear a light jacket. During my routine walks my sleeveless tops cause my skin to mottle from the cold. Sweat is now something I have to work harder for!
Air is something I’ve tried to be more conscious of these days. In grade school, I learned about trade winds and fair winds and the dreaded doldrums and learned them as facts, as things that required memorization rather than as things of great beauty. I had first become aware of air in my fascination with chimes. I’ve always liked chimes. To me, it was a concrete way of seeing air at play. At my wedding, in a garden, we chose 10 trees to festoon with chimes. During the craziness at the reception, the chimes tinkling were my sign to breathe even more deeply.
In our first home, my fascination continued and I attempted to encircle the house with chimes. But my husband stopped me, walking around the perimeter walls and declaring which spots were more suitable for chimes. What an original thought! You mean there was actually a design in the way air moves? I thought that was only true for air that was near the sea. I must admit his knowing this made him even sexier to me.
There is one spot in the house where the air collects, in response to the way our roof is designed in relation to my neighbor’s roof. This random design manages to collect the air and makes it swoosh more greatly, causing the chimes to all ring in reply! When storm warnings are posted, my husband dutifully brings down all the chimes, in fear that the wind will be too great for them to handle. On summer days, I write in the room above the “chime room” and I wait with my own bated breath for them to ring, a signal of a respite from all the heat. These days, the chimes ring constantly, a wonderful reminder that something is about to arrive.
I try very, very hard to know what it is I am waiting for when Advent arrives. Of course I know I am waiting for Christmas — but really what that means is to wait for the end of the world, and that’s not really what I’m waiting for. But I want something. I want to “open” something. I want a gift from this season. When I was much younger it was always a present. Walking dolls, talking dolls, barking dogs, money, money and even more money. A parade of things meant to teach me I have no idea what. The tradition of generosity anaesthetized by consumerism, perhaps?
I try very hard by making an effort not to be too engaged with the world at this time. It is a conscious effort. Beginning June, I already pick out presents, my method being that I cannot leave the house and not come home with one present. Last week, Santa already chose his presents, which are now hidden at the bottom of our stairs. The goal is to be homebound by the time December actually arrives. By Christ the King on the third Sunday of November, my most intimate Christmas dinner parties have already been planned. It’s obsessive, I know, and perhaps counterintuitive, but I truly want to be present in the moment that only Advent can give. So I play Christmas carols a lot. The children and I read Christmas stories. They need to know that something is different and it’s not just the lights around the subdivision.
What do I want Advent to give me? One, to be like Angel Gabriel, whose voice was used only to speak of the Kingdom of God. Two, like the Star, I want it to remind me that all things created are good and proper. My life, in all its tattered-ness, is as it should be. Three, like Joseph, I want to feel an absolute faith in God. Four, like Mary, to only know that the only thing she needed to do was to raise Christ well for his destiny, focused on this one great job, not distracted by the shininess of the world. (Mary and Joseph’s story was filled with great danger and not for one moment did they ever feel that they were alone.) Five, like the Shepherds, to know that the toil and work that I bring to the world is of great value.
Six, like the Innkeeper, that I can always give more than what I thought I could. Seven, like the animals at the stable, to be comfortable in silence and to practice the gift of reverence. Eight, like the Christ Child, prepared to take his destiny and fate, ever grateful for the chance to be used to love. Nine, like the Three Kings, chosen specially to witness the most strange scene of a real King born in the most unusual, quiet circumstances — their own kingliness and mightiness forever questioned.
I am certain that these gifts have been given. I am more certain that I will get them if I look for them. I am absolutely certain that I will find them with a quiet heart. The danger of getting older is in losing sight of things that used to be so clear when we were children. It is so noisy where I am. To counter that, I must make myself as small as possible and as quiet as possible because it is only when one is small and quiet that one can become arrested and astonished by big and great things.
And perhaps one more gift? This one an act of imagination. To be at that moment; to be the air that surrounded the perfection of all things; to be the tiny bell that chimed that the great thing had come.
