The Place I Want to Get Back To

is where

     in the pinewoods

          in the moments between 

               the darkness

and first light

     two deer

          came walking down the hill

               and when they saw me

they said to each other, okay,

     this one is okay,

          let's see who she is

               and why she is sitting

on the ground, like that,

     so quiet, as if

          asleep, or in a dream,

               but, anyway, harmless;

and so they came

     on their slender legs

          and gazed upon me

               not unlike the way

I go out to the dunes and look

     and look and look

          into the faces of the flowers;

               and then one of them leaned forward

and nuzzled my hand, and what can my life

     bring to me that could exceed

          that brief moment?

               For twenty years

I have gone every day to the same woods,

     not waiting, exactly, just lingering.

          Such gifts, bestowed,

               can't be repeated.

If you want to talk about this

     come to visit. I live in the house

          near the corner, which I have named

               Gratitude.

-Mary Oliver

Lo, he comes

A canceled end-of-the-day lesson leaves me with several hours in a row to do with as I please.

There are a host of things on my to-do list. The least of which is the hours of practice I still have yet to do in preparation for what may prove to be the most difficult final of my academic career.

Every part of me knows that I should practice. I have successfully avoided it all day, and tomorrow's Mary, as well as next Thursday's Mary will be annoyed with present Mary for not using the time she has.

But my soul is restless, in a way I can't help but attend to.

And as I allow myself a moment to sit, they come. 

The tears. 

The ones that have been brimming all day, all week.

From where, I don't exactly know.

Maybe they spring from anxiety, from exhaustion, from overwhelmedness. 

Will I make it?

Will I be enough?

Will I find any more reserves of strength within me?

Will I get it done?

Will this, too, pass?

Maybe they spring from soul-weariness, from grief, from disillusionment with the fight.

Will the wrong ever be made right?

Will the evil ever be broken?

Will the light ever overcome the darkness?

Will the truth win out?

Will this, too, pass?

Maybe they spring from joy, from wonder, from surprising, unspeakable beauty.

Will I give in to the joy?

Will I dare to hope?

Will I choose to feed my faith?

Will I continue to keep my eyes peeled for the glimpses of light?

Will I refuse to let the moments pass me by without choosing to be present to them?

As I write, I find myself mesmerized by the brilliant hues of the setting sun peering through the shadows of a tangled web of bare branches.
The contrast is stark.
The branches are cold and lifeless - the sun, warm and inviting. 

And isn't this the perfect picture of Advent?

The dark and the light. The cold and the warm. The now and the not yet. 

The hope and belief that the baby will come, and the honest acknowledgement of the reality that he is not here yet.

But it is more than that. It is the belief that his coming does not happen all at once. That his coming is gradual. That he is still in the process of coming. That his arrival wasn't only in the past, and that it isn't only in the future.
It is ongoing. It is today. It is now.

The last glimmer of daylight fades, and we settle in for a long, cold night.

But there is life in the darkness.

Though all seems still, cold, lifeless, tired, dead....yet there is movement, imperceptible to our near-sighted eyes. While we sleep, the dancing globe will continue its slow and steady twirl. And tomorrow, when we wake again, we will once more greet the light of the sun. The light that has been there all along. The light that even as it leaves us, has already begun its return.

And so we give thanks.

For the light that has been.
For the light that is now.
For the light that is, even now, coming.

Lo, he comes, the long-expected one.

Lo, he is here, Emmanuel.

The one who has been with us.

The one who will be with us.

The one who is being with us.

Lady Mississippi

We have been meeting for several months now, she and I. We have a standing date at 6:45am, Monday through Saturday.

For the first few weeks, there was some semblance of daylight. Then, for a few weeks, we shared the glow of daybreak together. Now we meet in the cover of darkness. At times, I can barely see her, but still I know she is there. 

I have found myself a bit rudderless in these months. I am used to having a landmark to center me. For many years, it was the North Cascades. The outline of their jagged peaks against the glow of the rising sun. And even on cloudy days, when they were not visible, I somehow still felt their presence.

For many years, it was the view of Mt. Spokane. Sometimes green and bald, sometimes white and snow-capped. But again, a steady presence. A landmark to orient myself to. Something constant. Something bigger than me.

It was a sad day when I read that the highest point in Minnesota is 2,300 feet. An even sadder day when I learned that the Black Hills of South Dakota are the tallest point between the Rockies and the Swiss Alps. What would I do without my mountains?

Let me be clear: she is not a replacement. I will always need my mountains. But she has proven to be a faithful companion for this stage in the journey. Our meetings are brief, but each time, I feel my center lower...sometimes by millimeters, sometimes by centimeters. 

She never says much. Of course, neither do I. But somehow in her silent flow, she communicates the truth I most need to hear. And somehow, although she is forever changing, I feel the comfort of her constant presence. I feel the strength in her wide girth. I feel the life in her waves.

And while she will never be a mountain, I like to think that she may meet a few of them along the way as she continues on her journey.

And I'm sure, if I ask her, she'll bring them greetings from me.