Surviving the Blizzard

Smart cat, our Toulouse, sitting on the radiator while the snow piles up on the window behind him. Actually, we are taking his lead, although our radiator is a cozy woodstove.

Incarnation

May you enter into the Christmas liturgies with some joy in the Incarnation.  This was how my advisor in the Shalem Institute program signed his recent email in response to my request for extra time to write a paper.  It stopped me dead in my tracks….joy was the absolute last thing I was experiencing.

Every December is difficult for a church musician.  There are so many expectations, extra services, needy church members, sick or out-of town choristers, weather problems…the list goes on and on.  Although I don’t understand why, this December was particularly hard for me.  Musically things went very well, but I just ran out of steam. Joy at the coming of God to earth?  Maybe next year.

And then, something happened…at the last of the Christmas Eve services, late at night, I unexpectedly saw the Incarnation in the soloist who sang off key. And then I saw it in the intrepid choir members, singing their hearts out way past their bedtime.  During the sermon, as I was gazing at the beautiful poinsettias and candles, I took my husband’s hand and saw it in his patience and kindness to me.  I looked further into the congregation, some weary, some merry, and yes, I saw the spirit of God in each and every one. The stress and non-stop schedule of the past few weeks began to melt away and I felt joy.

And the next day, Baby Zev arrived for a visit. As I wrapped my arms around him I saw clearly… Incarnation.

The embodiment of a deity or spirit in some earthly form.  Thank you, Winston, for urging me to find joy in this season.

A Personal Advent

For most of the western world the Christmas season is in full swing.  Decorations, music and ads have been appearing since Halloween and the frenzy of holiday shopping was encouraged by Black Friday, Small-Store Saturday, Cyber Monday and even Giving Tuesday, of all things.  Many folks lament this commercialization, as do I, and I try not to be a part of it. 

Many years ago, full of loneliness and confusion after a divorce, I was headed home across north Texas on Christmas Eve.  The radio was playing- there were precious few stations to choose from- and of all things I heard the hymn O Come, O Come Emmanuel for the first time.  At that moment I fell head-over-heels in love with Advent.

Growing up as a Southern Baptist I’d never even heard the term Advent, much less observed it as a holy season.  There was nary a single Advent hymn in our hymnal at that time and the church Christmas tree and poinsettias went up the Sunday after Thanksgiving.  This idea of waiting, of expectation and hope, filled a need in my soul, and still does.  Now a church musician and an Episcopalian, Advent has become my favorite sacred season.  No church decorations or Christmas carols until after the fourth Sunday of Advent for us, just the way I like it.  And twenty-four Advent hymns, yes, that’s correct, twenty-four.

I am feeling this season more profoundly than ever this year because I believe that I am in the midst of a personal Advent, one that will likely last for months or even a few years.  As I approach my 60^th birthday, as my church continues to struggle, as my new grandson grows and changes daily, and as my husband enters a new stage, we must decide where we want to make our life.  Do we stay in Maine, which has become our comfortable home, or do we move closer to family, to share our lives with theirs more fully? It is a decision which should not be forced and which I am confidant will be revealed, in due season.  In the meantime, we wait.

O come, thou Wisdom from on high,

who orderest all things mightily;

to us the path of knowledge show,

and teach us in her ways to go.

                                      Latin, ca. 9^th century

Contemplation

What is there beyond knowing that keeps 

calling to me? I can't

turn in any direction

but it's there. I don't mean

the leaves' grip and shine or even the thrush's

silk song, but the far-off

fires, for example,

of the stars, heaven's slowly turning

theatre of light, or the wind

playful with its breath;

or time that's always rushing forward,

or standing still

in the same-what shall I say-

moment.

What I know

I could put into a pack

as if it were bread and cheese, and carry it

on one shoulder,

important and honorable, but so small!

While everything else continues, unexplained

and unexplainable. How wonderful it is

to follow a thought quietly

to its logical end.

I have done this a few times.

But mostly I just stand in the dark field,

in the middle of the world, breathing

in and out.  Life so far doesn't have any other name

but breath and light, wind and rain.

If there's a temple, I haven't found it yet.

I simply go on drifting, in the heaven of the grass and the weeds.

What Is There Beyond Knowing (Mary Oliver)

Grandmothering

A few weeks ago I spent several precious days with my grandson, who is 6-months old today. It's true what they say: grandparenting is special indeed.  I confess that I used to silently roll my eyes when friends would enthuse about their grandchildren and think to myself something like Oh, get a life!  I try to remember those feelings as I pull out my iphone with its hundreds of photos of Zev to show to anyone who asks.

My first assignment on the recent trip was to take care of baby while Emily had her haircut.  The 3 of us took the Metro downtown and Zev and I went to the American Art Museum while Emily was at the hairdresser.  And boy was he fussy!. He did not want to be in the stroller and his piercing cries in the atrium drew many dark looks.  He did, however, enjoy being in my arms and looking around at the art.  All in all, though, not an auspicious beginning for my grandson-sitting days.

Fussy or not, those few days were happily spent together-bath time, silly playtime, bedtime routine, an occasional bottle-just getting to know each other better.  And, of course, the first piano lesson.

Your Nana loves you, Baby Zev.

Season's End

After several weeks of an extraordinary display of fall colors, our trees are now shedding their leaves as winter approaches.  The dark and the cold are just around the corner.  Our garden produced admirably this year, except for the summer squash.  Have you ever even heard of summer squash not producing?  Well, ours were a wipe-out and I didn't once open my entirely squash cookbook.

Bill is the vegetable gardener and I am the cook and preserver.  His specialty is garlic and about 60 heads of the Russian variety are stored for soups, stews, stir-fries, you name it.  We even send some to appreciative friends in California.  And then there are the tomatoes-cherries, slicing and Romas.

This batch is ready to be made into pasta sauce, which I freeze.  It makes a wonderful meal on a cold winter's eve.  Bill gets his yearly quota of bacon with day after day of BLT's and eats the cherries right from the bush.  Me? Well, I only like my tomatoes cooked-that's too bad, but I've tried and it just doesn't work.

This is my first ever batch of ratatouille, made from our tomatoes and garlic, with squash, onions and eggplant from the farmers' market.  Yum.

And then of course there is the basil.  This year I made three recipes of pesto and socked it away in the freezer.  It will last until the spring if I'm careful.  My favorite way to use it is as a topping for salmon or white fish.  You can even buy less expensive frozen fish if you prepare it this way and it tastes great.

We still have many carrots and beets in the garden and they only get sweeter as the fall progresses. And we have a bumper crop of arugula, which loves cool weather-twice I've taken it to choir rehearsal and given away bunches and bunches.

How lucky we are- a bounty from our garden to sustain us during the cold, frozen winter months.

Respite

Earlier this month, after weeks of house guests and performances, Bill and I boarded a ferry in Blacks Harbour, New Brunswick, for an hour-and-a-half ride to Grand Manan Island. Although one can see its majestic tall cliffs from the coast of Maine it is actually part of Canada. The area is home to many species of birds, whales, seals and the like. About twenty miles long, Grand Manan was once a thriving hub of fishermen and dulce harvesters.  But now the two thousand or so hospitable and friendly inhabitants just try to get by however they can.

The east side of the island is mostly beach and marsh.  Our simple housekeeping cottage looked out over a scene much like the above.  We had happy hour on a bench near the water every evening and watched the ferry come and go.

We explored by car and foot for two days, ate simply and rested.  There are many spectacular hiking trails, an interesting museum and a few shops.  It was exactly what I needed.

Each time I come back from a vacation such as this (even though it was short) I wonder why do I work so much?  The simple answer is we need the money for recurring living expenses and retirement.  And I keep trying to figure out how to lower those expenses so that I can have more time. I want that desperately yet there's no easy answer.

We are planning a return trip to Grand Manan next summer, for a week.