There is great gift in the observance of the seasons of the church year. I was reminded of this over the weekend when I read an article in the Star Tribune about what they called the ‘Sunday blues’. This was a new concept for me. The writer outlined research and used interviews to explain the phenomenon that many people have of feeling blue, depressed, as Sunday arrives and draws their weekend to an end. The article spoke of the dread of Sunday and how some people even feel physically as well as emotionally ill on this first day of the week.

I read this article with a great sense of surprise and some sadness. As one who looks forward to Sundays, to seeing many loved ones I have not seen all week as they arrive at church, this concept was completely out of my range of understanding. I tried mightily to get inside the psyche of the stories of those in the article. And while it might be easy to go to the ‘well, they just ought to be in church’ place, that’s not where my heart went. Of course,I and many I know would miss the church gifts of singing,stories, prayer,I know that is not what others necessarily long for.

Instead what I read into the subtext of the article was some innate desire for a rhythm, a pattern, that gives form and meaning to the living of our days. When our days are defined only by our work, preparing to go there, being there, coming home from there, no matter how important the work, something seems to be missing. It becomes easy to forget that we are a part of something so much larger than tasks and duties. No matter how noble. No matter how vital.

For me, the ebb and flow of the seasons provides this. Being present to spring, summer, winter, fall, sets the stage for reflecting on the meaning of the work I do in the larger context of new birth, growth, living, dying and back to rebirth. I can make meaning out of that sacred circle and it keeps me humble.

The same is true in the rhythm of the church year. The Sundays in Advent feel much different than those in Lent. The season of Pentecost has its own spirit and Epiphany has such a sense of fulfilling light. Christmas…..well, what can you say? Joy! And then there is the long, winding, unfolding season of Ordinary Time which always seems anything but ordinary. Each of these seasons accompanied by a particular color…Advent blue, purple Lent, Epiphany white, Pentecost red and Ordinary green….give form to my days. I would miss this if I didn’t have it and might search for something to make sense of the give and take of my days.

Of course I don’t know the circumstances of those interviewed, those who feel blue on Sundays. All I know is that reading the article caused me to be filled with gratitude for the ways I have been blessed to observe these seasons and to use them to make meaning in my life. It seems a gift of some ancient time, some deeper wisdom.

As the Advent days continue, we will light the candles, one by one, until Christmas(joy!) arrives. In the blue of the candles and the darkness of the days, I will once again hold the tension of light and dark and the gifts of both. I will place myself in the larger story of the unfolding Universe and remember that the tasks I accomplish in a day are important but not necessarily earth-shattering. It will be a good reminder to hold it all gently.

And being gentle in Advent, with both ourselves and others, is a very good thing.

The Incarnation is, of course, the prime example of God’s “coming down.” But every time God brings life into spaces we imagined were dead, with nothing left to offer, we experience another moment in which God comes down to inhabit us.
~Enuma Okoro,Silence and Other Surprising Invitations of Advent

It seems the scriptures of both the Hebrew and Christian households are filled with stories of those who long for children. The scriptures of Advent have two central stories of birth. One is to an older couple who is surprised by an angel telling them they will give birth even in their old age. Miraculous. The other is, of course, the story of Mary, a young unmarried woman who is also visited by an angel telling her she will have a child. Miraculous, again. Both of these births are Holy Spirit work but then again, most birth is.

Here we are in the second week of Advent. I have been continuing my daily reading through the book Silence and Other Surprising Invitations of Advent and was taken with the two sentences above. It is easy to focus our whole attention on this birth of one particular child born more than two thousand years ago. But the lncarnation, the in-breaking of God in the world,goes far beyond that. “Every time God brings life into spaces we imagined were dead, with nothing left to offer, we experience another moment in which God comes down to inhabit us.”

The stories of birth in the scriptures almost always seem to come by surprise. They may be longed for, waited for, hoped for but their actual occurrence is brought about by some miraculous in-breaking of the Spirit. The same is true today, isn’t it? We see situations in our world where it didn’t seem possible anything new could happen, any good could arise, and then some movement shifts the balance and everything changes. New life. I thought of this with the death of Nelson Mandela this week. Apartheid ruled a nation and for those who were under its thumb, there was nothing left to offer, no choices to be made. But his faith, his patience, his belief in the gifts of all humanity and his ability to unite a people brought life to places imagined dead. Miraculous.

It is easy to make this unfolding story of Advent a singular telling of this Christ Child. But this invitation to be present to the in-breaking of God is ours to live each and every day. At least that is the message I hear on the lips of the One whose birth we will soon celebrate. Jesus,over and over, pointed the people away from focus on him and toward the care of the poor, the weak, the vulnerable, the lost, the left out. He continued to focus people’s eyes and hearts on the places believed to be dead with nothing left to offer saying:” Wait a minute. Something is going to happen here. Watch for it.”

Today, in this second week of Advent, our own waiting continues. There are places around the world that need our prayers and our attention. Places that seem impossible, with nothing left, no hope. There are also people who seem at the end of their rope, all the choices used up, no place left to go. As the dark blanket of December continues to fall, you may be finding yourself in the midst of one life’s barren places. There are institutions and organizations that have hit the wall and can’t seem to find a way to move in any path of goodness and creativity.

The invitation of Advent continues. Keep awake. Watch for the ways light is born from shadow. Prepare our hearts with mercy and kindness. Wait with patience for the in-breaking of Spirit. It will bring something miraculous. Something amazing.

It always has.

There are days so full of gift they take your breath away. Yesterday was one of those days. It was a day slow to evolve. This was partly driven by the snow that filled the skies and overflowed onto the roads and sidewalks. To have moved quickly through this would have been unwise. Sitting in a chair, watching the silent fall of flakes, created a mantra of unfolding that was not to be rushed. Since I had chosen to work from home, to not battle the elements or the other drivers, I had the luxury of allowing the day to arrive in its own sweet time. It seemed a very Adventy thing to do.

After much paperwork and a long list of phone calls had been made,I prepared myself for the gift of the afternoon. It was my privilege to attend the swearing in ceremony of one of our dear ones who was taking on the mantle of citizenship of these United States. I had only attended one of these some time ago when family friends welcomed their adopted Korean son into full citizenship. He was just a youngster and the event happened on the steps of the State Capitol. It was near the Fourth of July and had a very festive feel, steeped in the heat of summer. Many children were a part of this experience. It was wiggly.

Yesterday’s event was quite different,housed as it was in the midst of a mini-snowstorm, on a day that was quite unlike days many of those being sworn in had known in their native lands. We arrived just as the ceremony was beginning and came into a room packed with people, beautiful people,in all the various shades and hues humanity can clothe itself in. Those being sworn in filled the front part of the large courtroom. Those of us who came in support, love and admiration, took up the back of the room. There were babies and grandparents, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, wives and husbands, partners and friends. The room seemed almost too small to hold the emotion and excitement. The very walls could have been breathing in and out with the expectation.

As I sat there looking out over the room, I was reminded how often I travel in a world where people look basically like me. Most of the places I go, restaurants, shopping malls, movie theaters, even church,is made up of people who look fairly similar. And yet this is not how the world is! The world is so much more beautiful, so much more varied and colorful, than my little, tiny slice of it. This amazing palette of people, created in the image of the One who breathed us all into being, is an ever birthing piece of artwork and I am wise not to forget it.

I tried to imagine the life stories of the 71 people who had worked so hard to be sitting where they were. The forms they filled out. The books they studied. The questions they answered. The facts they memorized. Where had each come from? What did they sacrifice to be here? What do they hope for? How will this citizenship change who they are and set a course for their lives and the lives of their families in a new way? So many questions. So much to admire. I was filled with humility in the face of it all.

The judge who presided over this ceremony reminded these new citizens that they each had much to offer their newly adopted country. Their offerings were grounded in all they had brought with them from their natives lands….their music, customs, clothing, traditions and faith traditions. She impressed upon them that these gifts they have to offer is what makes this country great. By this time the tears were streaming down my face. I wanted to stand and shout: “Amen! Preach it, sister!”

Sitting as I did yesterday in the midst of this rainbow of humanity, I was reminded of so much. The freedoms I often take for granted. The beauty of this land I love. The way I often live small, forgetting the fullness of the family I have been born into. The human family. Those who walk upright and speak countless languages. Those whose skin is similar and very different than mine. Those who sacrifice and scrape and save to make a life. Those whose joy spreads across smiling faces and tear stained cheeks.

As Advent days go, this one was fuller than I could have imagined. And for that I am grateful.

Several weeks ago, a colleague shared a book of Advent writings with me. The title is Silence and Other Surprising Invitations of Advent. The author is Enuma Okoro. It is a lovely little volume that uses the story, not of Mary and Joseph,the usual stars of the Christmas telling, but that of Zachariah and Elizabeth. These early entrants in the unfolding scripture story that leads us to Christmas are the parents of John the Baptist. Their story is in many ways as unlikely as the other characters whose names are more familiar and is as equally filled with the work of angels. I commend both their story and this book to you.

It is the title that has been one of the most intriguing set of words for me so far in this Advent journey. Silence and Other Surprising Invitations of Advent. Silence? It is not a word we associate with this season, one that comes bound up with color and sound, masses of people and frenetic pace. Silence….that absence of sound, of words, of even the ever present melody of carols that seem to accompany every step. Is it even possible to find silence in these darkest of days?

Zachariah’s story is grounded in silence. After he is less that convinced with the angel telling him that he and Elizabeth will have a child in their old age, the gift of the angel to him was silence. The angel basically makes him unable to speak. As a priest, the ability to speak was a pretty big deal. But the message of the angel was even bigger.

Rereading this story, or more truthfully paying greater attention to this story, has me thinking about the invitation of silence. It is not an invitation I RSVP to in the affirmative very often. I am more likely to be filling the air waves with either the sound of my own voice or someone else’s as I keep company with radio, iPod or other purveyors of sound. And frankly, the idea of being unable to speak makes me short of breath!

But as Advent goes, I do see the beauty of an inviting silence. In silence, I can be more attuned to the longings that are coming to birth within me. In silence, I am able to rest in the way the light is lessening with each day. In silence, waiting for the Light seems more possible, more hope-filled. In silence, I am able to be present for how the Holy shows up despite the distractions that dog my days.

There is gift in being unable or unwilling to speak our mind at every turn. We are charged with a deeper listening, filled with a wide-eyed and open-hearted approach to the world. Perhaps the angel knew this when it touched Zachariah’s lips and stilled his speech. From that moment on, Zachariah’s only work was to wait, listen and prepare for this miracle of birth that had been his life’s longing.

I wonder…….what might the invitation of silence bring to each of us in these Advent days?

On Saturday I stopped into our neighborhood coffee shop for a little jolt of caffeine. The Thanksgiving festivities had created a certain frenzied glow that I was still wearing but the familiarly of this ritual of a cup of joe reined me in and planted me in the present moment. Earlier in the week I had asked the barista what was planned for his holiday and he remarked that his wife’s family was coming to their house, twenty-five in all, and he was a little concerned that their home which is filled with three young boys was not always the neatest. I assured him that the eventual end of any Thanksgiving gathering rarely included an account of how clean the house was. We agreed on this and then I said “And, of course, we have the first Sunday of Advent to content with.”

This barista and I often share little church anecdotes. I learned some time ago that his college degree is in church music and in addition to making a splendid latte he also is a church musician. To my Advent comment, he replied: “It’s good to have a change of season, isn’t it?” I smiled at all that comment held. There was the relief that what we refer to in the church as ‘Ordinary Time’, the longest season of the church year, is finally over. Depending on when Pentecost lands, the season of Ordinary Time can go on for months and months. With the season of Advent, we are offered the quiet, moody music of the days that lead up to the big, colorful sounds of Christmas. This lead-up music is often in minor keys and filled with a poignant longing, words about preparation and images of waiting for the Christ Child to be born.

Longing. Preparation. Waiting. All words illuminate what the season of Advent is about. But there is still one more primary message of this season: Keep awake! This is my favorite part of the celebration of Advent. All the scriptures seem to pinch and poke us to ‘stay awake’ to the ways the Holy is showing up today, now, in our time. Many of these ancient words carry wild and explosive images that jar us off center…..not the very warm, fuzzy Christmas stuff that comes our way in popular culture.

This year our church’s theme for Advent is ‘Awaken to Amazement’. In many ways it is a very challenging theme. How do we awaken? What will it take? Why am I asleep? What will happen in this awakening? What will be required of me if I am ‘awake’? What would it take to bring about amazement? How might living an amazed life transform us?

So many questions to begin this season. I have no real answers but then maybe that is another gift of this short, dark and holy time. If I can be awake to the ever increasing darkness of these December days, I might be more aware and ready for the light that will return on the Solstice. If I can embrace the waiting, preparation, the longing of these four weeks, I might be more open to the ways the Christ Light is being born again and again right under my nose.

The poet Mary Oliver writes: ” When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.” And so it is. This change of season comes and the gift is held out once again. Stay awake. Be amazed.

Who knows what this particular change of season might bring?

For most of my life, I have been surrounded by preachers. As a child there was always at least one preacher I saw weekly from my vantage point nestled in our family pew on a Sunday morning. My mother was stationed at one end, my father at the other, while my brothers and I lined up between them, parallel flood walls to stave off any wiggling or behavior that might not be perceived as worthy of worship. I knew others, those in our town who were more demonstrative, more emotional, at churches we did not attend, perhaps even were skeptical of.

In seminary I was once again surrounded by preachers. Most of my professors had, at one time served a church as a minister, before moving into the academic world. Here they taught and trained those who saw their lives being lived out in the church. Most of my classmates also wanted to be preachers,believed themselves to be called to unpack the scriptures for people, offering the good news as they understood it. Being more of a storyteller and writer,I never completely saw myself in the same category but I was drawn to how this preaching stuff happens, the great power it can hold, the slippery slope of responsibility it can be.

Over my lifetime I have heard what I would call excellent preachers. They have been inspiring, creating a blanket of words that brought both comfort and challenge. I have also heard great storytellers, those who for my money, paint a picture of the movement of God that has me saying “Sign me up! I want what you are talking about.” I have also heard what I would describe as less than compelling preaching. Words and thoughts ramble. There is no thread for me to grab onto and hold while I ride the twenty minutes or so with this person. The caretaker in me is made anxious by this experience.

A few times I have also been present to a preacher who seems, at least to me, to be furthering some personal agenda. Sometimes they seem to be carrying an ax to grind about an issue or experience that seems more their own, one they are simply working out in the presence of a large group of people. Rather than that message of the good news most people hope to hear when they arrive at church, I can feel held captive by this preacher’s words. I feel manipulated.

A couple of Sundays ago I attended a church not my own. I was welcomed well and settled into my pew. I knew what to expect. I knew the hymns, the scripture, how things would work. I was not expecting anything particularly great to happen, no preaching that would knock my socks off or challenge me in any particular way. In some ways, my presence was the kind of obligation that can nag those of us who have made church their life.

But the preaching of that morning was not delivered with words. Nor was it delivered by the preacher in the pulpit whose words mostly bounced off me like so many ping pong balls. Instead,the preaching came from the gentle, quiet movements of the lay leader whose role was to make announcements and lead the congregation in everything besides the sermon. I watched as she helped one of the older gentlemen who had been trying to light the candles that flanked the altar. His unsteady hands quivered as he tried to reach the wicks that may have once been easy for him but in his unsteadiness he could no longer safely do. She guided his hands to do a task that had at one time been a simple gesture of preparing for worship. She helped him do the work he wanted to do. My heart was warmed.

But her preaching for the morning didn’t stop at candle lighting. Just as the minister was about to begin his morning sermon, this same man came walking out of the choir loft, saying something I could not hear. But the lay leader did and she once again gently guided him down the side stairs without making a fuss, helping him go wherever he needed to go. As her kindness and presence moved through the worship space, I was reminded of the words of St. Francis: “Preach the gospel at all times. If necessary, use words.”

And so it was. And so it was.

A few weeks ago I was listening to MPR as they were once again reflecting and reporting on the devastation of the storms that hit the New Jersey shore a year ago. They used a phrase that stuck with me. They described this community as one ‘not built for resilience”. I remember how my eyes widened and my head seemed to jerk toward the radio at this particular combination of words and all they implied. A community not built for resilience. Then I thought of the impact of Katrina, which has left a city and its people still unhealed even after all these years. And there is Haiti. And this past week, the Philippines. All these, and others whose names escape me, torn to bits by wind and rain and forces the people had no control over. Homes leveled. Families scattered. Lost. Groping around in the daylight and dark to find food, water and anything that looks familiar, theirs.

Resilience. As a parent, I remember talking with other parents about the hope of raising resilient children. Those young ones who could take the inevitable knocks of life from pillar to post and still be able to pull themselves up, remember who they are, and move on. Until the next joy or sorrow hits. Resilience seems to me to be one of the greatest gifts we can give our children, ourselves. But none of us, I believe, embraces that resilient spirit alone. For me that is an impossible task. Resilience comes, not from being a strong individual, but from knowing how intricately woven together we all are in a community. Whether that community is family, neighborhood, church, school, a circle of friends, it makes no difference. So to be a part of a community that is built for resilience is important, imperative, down-right bone, deep necessary. Isn’t it?

Now I recognize that the MPR report was mostly speaking about the ways in which the people along the Jersey shore had built the structures of home and business in ways that did not take into account how they might be called to live in communion with the land and water that is so important to their livelihood. The same could be said about so many of our cities and communities. Because as humans we love the water, the cliffs, the mountains, we forget that we are as equally yoked with this land as we are to the human ones who share our spaces. Living in relationship with how creation works is as important as being kind to our neighbor which can mean we don’t get to do what we want without responsible thought or action.

But if we were to think about and plan for creating a community of resilience, what would it look like? It seems to me being known is important, really important. We need to know one another’s names and the things that make us most alive. When was the last time you asked someone, a child, a friend, a partner what is making them most alive these days? Listening, really listening,to their answer is also important. Kindness is a must. And grace. Then there is the deep belief that most of us are simply doing the best we can. Every day. Over and over.

A resilient community shares some common goodness, or at least a belief that goodness is possible and necessary. This takes a big dose of creativity. Resilience is planted in the soil of seeing the best in the other, helping when we can, knowing that someone will do the same for us when the time comes. The early followers of Jesus knew this and made it a common tenet of what became articulated as faith. Sometimes these days we forget and think this faith is about believing and being with people who believe and look just like us. But resilience can get drowned in such a way of living. So it seems wise to throw the net pretty wide. You just never know when it will be the person who looks, acts, or believes differently who might be the very one who shores up the community after a storm, who picks up the debris that flew wildly in the wind until it landed right in your yard.

I am sure there are so many other traits that help build resilience. You have your own list. But I hope we all can agree that we can no longer afford to be living in communities that are not built for resilience. The normal, daily storms that rock our world will continue to happen. It is the way of life. Let’s remember we are all in this together and do all we can to build not only resilient children but resilient communities.

Last week I walked around the shoreline of one of Minnesota’s more than 10,000
lakes. It was a frigid morning and the ice was beginning to form on the space where water washed onto the land. The sound of my own feet padding along pavement was accompanied by a clinking sound. New ice pieces were sloshing in the water like the sound of ice cubes in a frosty glass. The slightest motion of wind caused a somehow comforting connection of temperature and water to be the soundtrack for the beginning of my day. This sound was an echo of the way in which my cheeks began to feel the tingling of the cold, piercing little pinpricks of cold on flesh.

All along the lake, the beaches and grassy land was dotted with the docks and rafts that had,only a few weeks before, been floating lazily in the water. They had felt the frenzied feet of children running, jumping, diving into the cool,refreshing water. They had been the stability for those stepping on pontoon boats headed for an evening’s contemplative ride around the lake at sunset. They had held the hopeful promise of those carrying fishing rods as they packed tackle and coolers into a boat ready for a day’s catch. These wooden structures floating on the water’s surface had also been the rock on which kayakers and canoeists had steadied their bodies as they lowered themselves into their tippy, water crafts. Now they sat, alone, unmoored on land.

Perhaps it was the cold temperatures that sent my mind racing about these landed docks. More likely it was the time spent earlier in contemplation at a retreat center further down the lake. Whatever the source, I began to think about the times in our lives when it is necessary to remove ourselves from certain situations, opportunities, places, and all that allows us to make the passage from one to another. Those times when it seems the wise thing to take our dock out of the water and wait.

Sometimes this choice is not our own but is chosen for us. I have people in my life who might feel like their dock has been lifted out of the water, stranding them on land for an undefined season of time. Grief can do this. Illness, too. The loss or change in a relationship can remove that connection that bridges the ground and the ability to float. The act of taking the dock out of the water of our lives can be what allows us to take the time we need, to allow our spirits to prepare our bodies and minds for the next season, a future that is yet to be imagined.

Other times the act of taking the dock out of the water is an act of planning and wisdom. Summer turns to autumn and then to winter. Leaving the dock in the water will only result in cracked wood, the damage that comes from thawing and freezing, from water pushing and pulling on a solid mass. Removing the dock, from water or our lives, can be a choice to pay attention to the ebb and flow of changes, hopes, and questions that are nagging us. Sitting on the beach, forcing our bodies into a stillness that will feed the ‘what next’ is time well spent and provides a deep well from which to draw.

And you. Are there docks that have been lifted off their moors in your life? Is there something that might be pulled out, set aside for a time to make room for the next season, one you only sense but which does not have form in you yet?

All around Minnesota, in these November days, you can see these docks. Sitting. Waiting. Sculptures that tell of a different season. Not this one. Or the one that has past or is yet to come. They might be calling us all to stop, listen, wait. Something is always being born in us. But perhaps, not yet. Not yet.

Each day has a certain weave to it that gives it its own personality, its own set of threads in a tapestry that is unique to that block on the calendar, that turn of sun and moon. Some days we are aware of that weave. Most often this seems to happen when tragedy strikes. We are able to mark the ‘before’ and ‘after’ and see the day in the brilliance and shadow of itself. But there are days when the threads that weave into the tapestry of a day are so rich, so beautiful that even the most distracted person wakes up to the gifts that are being offered in the unfolding. Sunday was just such a day for me.

I began the morning, as I do nearly every Sunday, in worship with a community of people I have been blessed to travel with for many years. We celebrated the baptism, the folding into the community of faith, of a sweet new woman-child. In this particular community, the theme of baptism is woven throughout the entire service. It becomes a reminder, even a reaffirmation for those who notice, of each of our births,the ways we are intricately connected through water….its presence in our bodies,the eternal need we have for it, the tributaries we become to one another on life’s journey. In a refrain we sing as the baby is adored and passed through the community, we declare:”Welcome to this spinning world!” We say it for ourselves and believe it to have been on the lips of the Holy when we each made our own entrance into this precious life.

Later in the morning, in another worship service, we read aloud Psalm 104 as the psalmist declares the beauty and wonder of Creation. We spent some time together reflecting on how we had seen the movement of God in earth and sky. Listening to people’s own psalm language emerge and seeing the looks on their faces when they made those connections of seeing the Sacred in their everyday lives was such a gift. I left that place bathed in their words.

In the late afternoon, my husband and the Big Black Dog and I headed out for a walk along some trails in our neighborhood. We were anticipating the colder temperatures that were to arrive and were working to squeeze as much enjoyment out of the waning November weather as we could. Leaving the paved walking trail that runs through the woods, we stepped onto the soft, gentle ground made so by the fallen pine needles that blanketed the earth, sending up their rich, pungent, piney smell. We seemed to adopt the quiet walk the needles demanded. Suddenly, overhead we saw what seemed a huge, flying presence. Stopping, settling ourselves for what we might see, we raised our silent heads toward the tops of a tree. An enormous owl looked back at us. We stood and sat, respectively, looking at one another…..owl and humans, even dog, awake and aware to their fellow earth travelers. It was breath-taking!

But this day was not yet finished offering up its riches. Driving home from our owl encounter, someplace in the midst of conversation about dinner yet to be prepared,our eyes were jerked into over-drive. The trees ahead of us were shining! Their branches were red as if on fire. An enormous paintbrush had taken the now bare, drab branches and painted them with brilliance. The Sun’s setting was creating what is called Aspen Glow on the landscape around us. Amidst the “Wow!” and the “Look!” of our human voices, I seemed to hear a “You’re welcome.”sounding forth. We were like Moses standing in the presence of a bush that burned but was not consumed. We were in the presence of the great ‘I Am’.

Some days the tapestry that is woven of our daily walk is muted, even mundane yet serviceable. Other days, God shows up in that show-offy way that brought us peacocks and birds of paradise and giraffes. When this happens it is best to make note of it which is what I have tried to do by writing this. It is my meager human attempt at documenting the beauty offered me on one particular day, in one tiny life.

Whatever the tapestry of your day, may your eyes, my our eyes, be open to it and may our hearts be overflowing with gratitude.

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”
~Edith Sitwell

After writing about the flight behavior and migration of monarch butterflies last week, I was interested to read in Saturday’s paper the following from Jim Gilbert, a naturalist and author whose words always peak my imagination: Winter strategies for Minnesota’s native species include migration, coping and hibernation. He goes on to describe in detail what happens to animals whose makeup includes the act of ‘sleeping’ through the winter. Heart rates slow to almost nothing. Blood flow slows to a crawl. Breathing becomes almost undetectable.

This morning the temperature tells us there is no turning back. Winter is here. It is time to decide on some ‘strategies’ for making our way through icy winds, freezing temperatures, and dark and cloudy days. For most of us, while some long naps might be in order,hibernation is not an option. Too much heart slowing and little breathing seems a terrifying option! And so we are forced to look at other ways of living into these winter days.

Of course, there is always ‘coping’ as Gilbert suggests. We will all do this in some ways but I believe there is greater gift in these days that simply coping. There is also the option of migrating. I know many people who now make their way to warmer climes and live a double life of north and south. They pick up what is important to them here and carry it to another place, a warmer, sunnier place, where they have incorporated the gifts of what they love in a kinder, gentler climate. Those who are blessed with certain resources may even adopt this migratory behavior for a least a week, say, sometime in February when the work of coping is fraying nerves and spirits.

But I would like to suggest that there are many other strategies for living in winter that go far beyond the act of coping. I know people who have once again picked up yarn and needles and are settled into a cozy chair waiting to knit their way through winter. Others are tackling that large stack of books that accumulated in the ‘to-be-read’ pile. What can be more comforting than a good book on a cold day? Some I know are pulling out that art project they have been dreaming about all summer when the weather was too warm and seduced them to be outside. And, of course, the foodies are planning soups and breads and sweets that will nurture the tingling cheeks and frost fingers of those they love.

Those of us who love to write are making lists of ideas for stories or poems. Some may even be tackling a first stab at a novel or a recommitment to memoir. There is something about the colder temperatures, the darker skies that can stir up the creative muse for writers. Thoughts spin more freely in a brain whose body home is numbed by cold. Words seem to form out of the visible breath that surrounds the head like a comic strip conversation bubble.

The seasons we are blessed to live are gift of the Great Artist and call to the artist in all of us. Migrate? Hibernate? Cope? It seems there are so many strategies for wintering.

What are yours?