Halfway There

It has been rainy and gray for the past few days in New England, and I have yet to buy an umbrella. In multiple places—the radio, the lunchroom, the check-in counter at the gym, people have said: “Thank GOD it’s not snow!”

A few days ago the little blue advent book that I picked up at the back of a church in Back Bay told me that the season is now half over. It instructed me to think about the goals I’d made for myself at the beginning, review my plan, and sit for six minutes in silence and think about how it’s going.

I have friends who are very goal-oriented. They set one goal, and sketch out the steps required to reach that goal, and chip away at it for days and months and years. Later they’ll say things like: “I ran that marathon in 4 hours and 30 minutes!”; “I opened that hair salon where people now must book their appointment three months advance!”; “I got a book deal!” It’s easy to get jealous of these human versions of y = mx + b; the stories of promotions and the house closing dates; the sight of someone’s glass Tupperware collection neatly organized.

Life road-map construction and following does not come naturally for me. My mind creates two or three goals, with several potential pathways to success, and then bounces from one to the other whenever I get frustrated. I think of the pain associated with each stepping stone, of mud-soaked boots and potential rejections, of crowds standing on the sidelines asking themselves: “What is she doing?”

Maybe, at least for Advent, it’s a time when we aren't meant to have a specific end-destination. Or get frustrated about the ways our lives are and are not unfolding. It's a time to be quiet and stay still. To stop questioning the amount of money we make, the relationship we may or may not be in, the way our apartment would look if we could only buy that West Elm rug. Maybe Advent is when we can practice telling ourselves, over and over, like Mary must have during her pregnant journey to Bethlehem, that God is with us. Maybe Advent is just enough time to allow ourselves to realize that it’s true.

So instead of making a grand plan and a never-ending list of festive aspirations, I committed myself to six minutes every night to sit in my bed and write about my day without any specific intention. To feel the warmth of my house, hear the sound of the cars going by, the see the dark, spidery shadows the telephone wires cast on the street outside my window.

We are all moving down certain paths, with or without a road map in hand. All we can do is step back for a few minutes, consider the sticks that we tripped over, and remember those who pulled over and offered a ride.