Advent Already??
How do we slow down when it all goes so fast?
If you’re anything like me, you probably turned around in confusion when December reared its head. Because truly, how is that even possible?
What does it mean to wait, which is allegedly what Advent is all about, when time seems to barrel impatiently ahead?
We aren’t waiting for Christmas. We’re bracing for it. We’re checking off our gift lists, managing our social calendars, somehow still accomplishing the daily tasks of work and life in the midst of it all, and next thing we know, I’ll be writing one of these reflections for Christmastide, and we’ll be going wait, wasn’t it Advent literally just a second ago?
As a general rule, we don’t like waiting. It feels like a waste of time. Most of the time when we’re waiting, our mind is spinning with all the things we could have been accomplishing instead. Our to-do lists are too long for waiting.
Yet, Advent celebrates exactly that. It honors the waiting, the anticipating, the slowness that comes with allowing ourselves to look behind and ahead, savoring the present as something that exists in between.
Advent is a liminal space. Something that exists in between the baby born in Bethlehem and the Creator’s unforetold re-emergence.
But in a world where time seems to race ahead, and in lives that seem to catch us all up in a continuous whirlwind of activity and anxiety, liminal spaces have something to teach us.
This year, I wonder if Advent is less about the waiting and more about the slowing.
But how do we slow down when time seems intent on speeding up?
That’s the question I’ve been repeatedly asking myself, and the answer I’ve come to is this: we slow down by leaning into the liminal.
Rather than allowing ourselves to be caught up in the hurriedness of the present moment, we allow ourselves space to reflect.
We look backward through a lens of gratitude, considering the countless ways we experienced the Divine, even in the midst of time seemingly flying.
For me, I look back and I count:
Each cup of coffee clasped between hands - both those at home, made with care, and those shared with friends over tables, good conversation to go with them
Each butt wiggle of a dog, squirming for attention by my elbow when I write, a blessing and distraction both
Each breeze blowing through the rose bushes, rustling my hair while I sit on the porch and sounding the chimes that hang nearby
Each new recipe I tried in the kitchen and each time we hosted good friends around our table
Each cozy weekend morning I spent curled up with a book and a blanket, a reminder that there is joy within quiet
Each page written, each page published, and each page performed in a year that has so wholly continued to affirm my calling as a writer
Each passing milestone of our nephew, transforming month by month before our eyes (you want to talk about time flying)
The list could go on, but you see my point. In some ways, it’s a simple list of things I’m grateful for. In other ways, however, it retroactively slows time.
Time didn’t fly. It was composed of multitudes of tiny joys and monumental moments. It felt as though it flew, but the reality of the year has been something rather different. In reflecting on the ways in which I’ve met with the Divine this year, whether over coffee or via baby giggles, I am able to embrace the reality of slowness. My hope this Advent season is that I don’t only see that slowness in my rearview mirror, but that I bring it forward with me. I hope that I can allow myself the slowness of the present, even when it attempts to pull me ahead.
This morning, I enjoy the slowness of writing to you in my pajamas.
But I promised you a liminal space, which means we can’t only look back.
We also look forward with a lens of anticipation, naming those Divine encounters we want to maintain and allowing ourselves the space to wish for new ones to add to the list. This Advent season, I allow myself to look ahead and imagine:
More travel
A new work-life balance that allows me even more time to write in my pajamas
More chairs around my table as we gather more friends more often to share life, food, and conversation
The increased likelihood of my time spent at church making it onto the previous list as we begin to slowly immerse ourselves more into the life of our church, hoping it may indeed become the family of God for us in this place
When we allow ourselves the privilege of looking ahead, we are creating for ourselves various waits - we wait for these dreams to become reality, for these hopes for the future to begin to take shape.
But I think the beauty of this tension - when we allow ourselves the slowness required to be thankful for what’s come and hopeful for what is to come - is that it actually creates the space necessary for us to fully appreciate the present moment.
Advent is an exercise in stillness, a beautiful celebration of the liminal, and I hope that you’ll exist in this in-between alongside me in your own way. We truly can savor the slowness that is ours to enjoy, if we choose to take time on our own terms, rather than continuing to let it drag us along.
Before I conclude today, however, I have to invite you to something. This Advent, I’m partnering with a fellow poet, Rebecca Wilson, to create an Advent Poetry Show for Weary Waiting. It’s called “When Candles Burn Low,” and we’d love it if you’d join us to reimagine the holidays in new and sacred ways.
The event is this coming Tuesday at 6pm CST, and it’s online and FREE. If for any reason the time doesn’t work for you, go ahead and sign up anyway, and we’ll send you the recording.
Don’t miss this special time. Exist in the liminal alongside us.
Register here: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/advent-poetry-for-weary-waiting-when-candles-burn-low-tickets-1975380192331?aff=oddtdtcreator
"I wonder if Advent is less about the waiting and more about the slowing."
Love this wondering. And so grateful for the ways we are wondering poetically together.