Blogspot reminded me -- forcefully -- today, that it was time to make an update, so I thought I'd take the first day of the last month of the year to do so, and to promise that updates will be more regular and varied in the coming year.
This is second day of Advent, the favorite season of my (lapsed) Catholic heart. I love the idea that it's an entire month devoted not just to anticipation, but to preparation, to getting ready. So many times, what matters most in our lives changes in a matter of moments. I like the idea that one time a year we try to slow down, even as the world around us is hurling towards the holidays -- towards the year's end -- and think about what is to come.
Earlier today, my friend E was talking about Christmas music, and the search for a song during this time of year that speaks to all the parts of that feeling -- a longing for what you remember about your childhood Christmases, a desire for new music that isn't cheesy, and doesn't make you want to stab yourself in the eye, a way to speak to the parts of you that are lost and lonely and aching for meaning. It made me think about what kind of music speaks to me during this time of the year that's all about longing.
For the last few holiday seasons, my favorite Christmas song by far has been Katryna and Nerissa Nields' Christmas Carol.
The song builds off the titles of several well-known Christmas hymns to tell the tale of a woman who's at a crossroads in her life, waiting for her partner "across town in [the] hotel room" to decide the fate of their relationship. Despite the grim subject matter, the song is upbeat, and the lyrics are hopeful.
What strikes me most about it, though, is the last verse:
I'm driving home and it starts snowing
I hum a carol to the night
You fall apart because you're growing
Unfolding slowly towards the light
And there's a light on in my window
Did I leave it on, or have you come home?
Either way there is a light on
Either way we're turning towards the sun
That's the feeling that Advent always captures for me. The year is coming to a close, the world is falling apart around our ears, but at the same time, the world is moving away from darkness, back towards the sun, towards a new year. In the same way, we can move from where we are to where we want to be.
Advent celebrates possibility; it's the Schrodinger's cat of holiday seasons. All things are possible.
It's also the season of bravery. We reach out because we are afraid to be alone. We make a change because it hurts too much to remain the same. We open ourselves to others, unfolding slowly towards the light, because we have things we want to say, we have gifts within ourselves we want to give. But however much we want them, those are hard things to do, to offer, and so we prepare ourselves for that moment when we can stand on the precipice and leap.
I've spent much of the last few years reinventing myself, preparing myself to make that leap into a great unknown. All that I knew or thought I wanted was taken away, and what was left was possibility.
The journey matters. The waiting matters. But the important thing, to me, is that at the end, however you get there, there is light.
Either way there is a light on
Either way we're turning towards the sun
