An Invitation To Quietude
December is the time of year when the grizzlies sleep, the woodchuck slows its heart rate to just eight beats and minute, and the plant, as Thomas Merton reminds us in a poem, “says nothing.”
Here in the northern hemisphere, even the earth itself seems to be slowing down as the daylight hours grow shorter and the darkness lengthens as we head toward the Winter Solstice. Only we humans continue to dash around at a furious pace, our annual holiday-season speed. You know things have reached a hideous point of frenzy when one of Walmart’s massive parking lots is so full you have to wait for a space to open up.
Today the church calendar enters the second week of Advent, a time that invites us to quiet waiting. Why would we want to waste such a precious invitation by engaging in mindless, frenetic activity?
I’m trying to spend this Advent being especially attentive to whatever small moments of wonder and grace come my way. It is also my way of coping with the despair I’ve been feeling over the chaos in the world (Gaza, Ukraine, Lebanon and now Syria) and the direction in which our country is moving — away from compassion and toward more division. What I’ve discovered is that when you look for wonder and grace, you will find wonder and grace, poured out and overflowing. But first you have to be still.
Just this past week I was invited by a parish in St. Louis to give an Advent reflection. My theme was reclaiming a sense of wonder. As I arrived at the parish hall, the crescent moon rose, as if on cue. There, suspended right below it, was the bright bulb of Venus, appearing much closer to the moon than usual. It was as though these two celestial bodies were having an intimate conversation. I had to stop and stare in wonder.
Earlier in the week, there was a frost in Illinois where I live. As I walked out my back door, I noticed three small pink impatiens still blooming, still looking fresh, next to some equally cold-defiant dusty miller. It was as though these plants didn’t know they were supposed to die. I had to stop and stare in wonder.
If they could withstand frost in order to share their modicum of beauty for a little while longer, couldn’t I push through my despair, try to be a source of grace for others?
I’m currently taking an online Advent retreat on the theme of darkness, based on the writings of Meister Eckhart and guided by author and longtime spirituality book editor Jon Sweeney. “The darkness of these days is like the darkness of our uncertainty: an occasion for quiet, humility, and learning again how to listen,” Sweeney writes of Advent.
“This is because darkness is full of potential and full of life … When we become mature in our spiritual seeking, we discover that lingering in darkness has more benefits than bathing in the light.”
With daylight disappering earlier now, I’m more apt to shut down my computer sooner, put aside work, and let the machine of my mind run idle. On days where there has been sun, I like to sit in silence and watch as the sky fades from gold to pale yellow to a shocking red before the curtain goes black. It is a time to enter the cave of my heart, when I’m not thinking, I’m not “knowing.” I can simply be.
There is a line that resonates from one of Meister Eckhart’s poems: “You are never closer to God than when/you are in utter darkness and unknowing.”
As we inch closer to the Solstice, and the shortest daylight hours of the year, can we welcome the darkness as a summons to practice greater quietude? Instead of dashing about from store to store, party to party, can we take a lesson from the plants and animals and allow ourselves in this season of Advent to rest and simply be?
