Posts

The tree is up, but ...

We finished trimming the Christmas tree last night. The "theme" this year is red and gold (Why? I don't like warm colors, generally). The boxes of decorations are restowed in the basement. But I still don't have any Christmas spirit. I have been known to say that I would love to sleep from the day after Thanksgiving until January 2! Hustle and bustle just wear me out. I went by our local mall last weekend, just to "put my toe in the water," saw that the parking lot was completely full, and decided to buy everything online. I hate crowds! I wonder ... Would Jesus recognize the fact that we are celebrating His birthday? As we wallow in consumerism, do we just postpone Him for consideration only in the Midnight Mass? Reading an Advent book helps to keep me focused. But, at the bottom, it's largely emptiness that I feel in Advent. But I suppose our emptiness is why He came, isn't it?

The season of bated breath

Well, we had Thanksgiving. The turkey is gone now, having provided a lot of nice sandwiches. The plastic container of leftover stuffing has been nibbled away to nothing. Before our daughter went back to college this afternoon, I bribed her to put together the Christmas tree (a job I hate but she enjoys, and I won't see her again till after her finals). So now in our living room, we are celebrating "Christoween": on the mantel are small pumpkins and gourds, and next to them the naked Christmas tree. Oh well. Things in our house never happen in a tidy fashion. And so Advent is about to begin. Time rushes by so quickly at this time of year that it is no wonder our lives become disordered. And yet -- of course I never felt this when I was young -- is there not a profound stillness at the heart of Advent, almost as though the world is holding its breath? Can we pause to feel this stillness of expectation, or will we miss it again this year? Andre Louf, writing in The Cistercia

Chilly, with rain and exhaustion

Every year I have a tendency to forget (until abruptly reminded) that fall and spring here can be windy and rainy. Saturday was lovely, but yesterday and today we have had a drenching rain and wind. It's warmish, but the rain just chills you anyway. And of course the rain and general gloom are exacerbated by the fact that it's Monday. Life is full, too full. By the time I get to Sunday night, I feel as though I have run a marathon. Last night I was beyond tired, and I still have no clean clothes. I wonder how many others feel this way? Why are we living like this? What happened to the 4-day work week that the pundits promised us, back in the 60s or 70s? Perhaps now it is time for my diatribe on modern life, and my unfavorable comparison of my life with my mother's. My mother was the person I didn't want to grow up to be. I felt particular horror at the idea of becoming a homemaker. So I worked like mad, getting two master's degrees, and letting a kindly day-care p

Just me and my "cell" ...

Fr. Hugh Feiss, O.S.B., writing in Essential Monastic Wisdom , has this to say about the appeal of the study, den, or monastic cell: "It is one thing to love one's room because one is so stressed out by work, crowds, talking, rushing from one appointment to the next, answering phone messages, that one's room is a place where one can collapse in peace. It is another thing to find somewhere a place of silence and creativity, where one can listen for the voice of God and think one's own thoughts and be one's own self." Hmmm ... This made me think. I do have a room, up at the top of my house, where I go to read, think, and pray. It's pretty comfortable, probably too comfortable. In addition to my desk and laptop computer, there's a wall of built-in bookshelves (rapidly getting full), a comfy chair with an ottoman, good reading lights, and a window to lo

All Saints' Day

I got to the train late this morning, after dealing with my three dear dogs and their various medicinal needs. I hate being late, so I arrived winded and annoyed on the elevated platform, having just missed a commuter train, and plopped down on a bench. The neighborhood trees, dressed in the remnants of their fall colors, were right at my eye level, shades of dusty red and dull gold. A fine morning mist overlay them all. As I watched, however, the morning sun broke through, and the colors, which had been sullen before, suddenly burst into flame. Even the tattered leaves about to fall were shining like the sun. "This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it." We forget this at our peril. It's so easy for me to get caught up in the rat race, and in so doing, become my own personal rat, in my own little spinning wheel. People are not meant to live like this, and I must resolve to make more effort not to. More easily said than done, of course. Tonight,