Children lighting candles-as-prayer at the peace installation, December 2004. Photograph by My True Self.

Today is the first Sunday of Advent (from the Latin, meaning ‘to wait’). It is the time in which Jesus-y folks everywhere prepare for the arrival of Emmanuel, God-with-Us. (The very concept of that possiblity give me anticipatory chills.)

Last year Advent went by in a flash, and my carefully cultivated discipline of keeping a peaceful, presence-ful schedule evaporated in a sea of poor planning. Ironically, in the midst of packing for an international move, this year we seem to be approaching this season with a more reasonable sense of time. To help this along, the note on my fridge says, “Today will unfold with measured grace,” and I am carefully prioritizing our calendar to help my family sink into this beautiful season.

Tonight we will go to “A Tranquil Advent Evening” at the cathedral on the hill. Though I’ve offered to let them beg off, the girls have both asked to go. They will be content to walk the labyrinth and light the peace candles while Momma –who was raised singing cantatas every year in the school choir — will join in the singing the gregorian chants and the verses of the O Anitphons, inviting the peace of Christ to come and dwell amongst us. My favorite verse, as always, will be verse eight: “O come, Desire of nations, bind in one the hearts of all mankind; bid thou our sad divisions cease, and be thyself our King of Peace. ”

The first time I came to this service on the hill, a profound sensory experience surrounded me, forever altering my experience of the Advent season. Here are my memories from that Advent, three years ago.

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Last night we went to “A Tranquil Advent Evening” at St. Mark’s Cathedral. The labyrinths were all candlelit, as were the steps to the altar. There was a classical guitar, a bevy of peace candles, perfectly executed Gregorian chants, a stellar harp.

It was raining outside, as it had been all week, and I had become acustomed to the constant drip. But inside the cathedral, I wasn’t prepared for weather’s resplendent sound.

It was as if the wind had decided to roar and sweep only around the cathedral walls. As if the rest of the city had been abandoned by her touch, that she might rally around this one space, this one focal point, her tendrical arms weaving and circling only around the deep, quiet nave.

“I am in a ship,” I thought, behind closed eyes, “below deck, and out of the way in my berth while the crew works to outstand the storm. Or perhaps we are all below, grasping tin mugs of coffee, working with the sway of the sea, hoping for the best, now that we’ve battened down the hatches.

No, it is more like a submarine, submerged and silent and waiting—hoping not to be heard by the enemy, hoping to be found by rescue rather than salvage.

Or perhaps we are Jonah, sloshing amongst fish bones, listening to the sounds of digestion, praying for rapture.”

Then another thought sprang into my consciousness—more true for its unbiddeness, for it’s unlooked for appearance…

“We are in a womb, in this strong walled Mary. We hear, not the howl of a storm, but the pulsing and swish of the stuff of our own making, the life-blood of our own to-be-ing. Hoping. Waiting. Being very still, yet very present.

Are these not the actions of both the mother in pregnancy, and the infant in utero? Mary’s song, the howl and swirl of heartbeats, the rush of blood in the vein. Entombed. Enwombed. Either way, a closing-in before the reality of new life, shown in a crowning head, in the left-behind emptiness or an abandoned tomb.

Advent, to wait. Emmanuel, to come. Oh! What could it be, if we would hold both words in one space– hold them there, between the roof of your mouth and the top of your tongue; soft in between the hollow of your cheeks, holding two truths in the loose-jawed spaciousness.

To Wait. To Come. Do you feel the void between these phrases? It spills out, whispering, “hold steady, be present.”

Breathe in…the sound swirls inside this still, incubating space where words come, waiting to be birthed into a reality. They hover amongst your teeth. Exhale….your breath hanging like a plea. “O come!”

To learn more about my Advent-y world, visit my previous blog Urban Abbess and choose ‘December’ in the archives window, or browse through the ‘rites and rituals’ category. Thank you for reading.

As a child I always asked for books at Christmas time. For some reason they rarely materialized. One year I was given two beautiful hardback books with colored plates: Little Women and Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates. Both are proud members of my book collection to this day.

My own children have a whole basket of holiday reading, from the mundane to the transcendent. This week I’m offering three charming tales sure to be Christmas classic. (Next week: beautifully illustrated nativity tales.)

Little Tree
e.e. cummings
Deborah Kogan Ray, illustrator

“little tree, little silent Christmas tree you are so little, you are more like a flower…”

My husband is a fan of e.e. cummings, and I gave him this beautiful watercolor of a book one Christmas when we were dating. Now we read the gentle story of Little Tree to our own children on quiet nights beside our Christmas tree. It’s out of print now, but you can still find a few gently used copies here. Today’s Flavor: Rhythmic and lovely.

The Year of the Perfect Christmas Tree Gloria Houston, author
Barbara Cooney, illustrator

An Appalachian mother and daugther are determiend to retireve the mountain top Christmas tree Papa had earmarked before he left for the war. The Year of the Perfect Christmas Tree is a simple, lovely tale about making do and making merry where a wedding dress becomes angel garb, and a clever mother finds a way to make her daughter’s Christmas wish come true. Well researched to capture the reality of Appalachian life and beautifully illustrated by Barbara Cooney, this can quickly become a Christmas classic in your home. Today’s Flavor: Nostalgic and hopeful.

P.s. Ms. Houston also wrote the fantastic My Great-Aunt Arizona and Ms. Cooney illustrated the wonderful Miss Rumphius.

Red Ranger Came Calling
Berkeley Breathed

Ohmylord, there cannot possibly be a more hilarious and charming tale than Red Ranger Came Calling, the story of a sour little boy and a disinhearted old … Saunder Clos? Berkely Breathed famed creator of Bloom County, Outland, and Opus, travels back to his childhood haunts on Vashon Island to illustrate a cheeky tale that’s sure to delight. Santa is down in the dumps and “visitors not recieved with zesty jolliness at the moment.” But by-gum, the Red Ranger of Mars is going up to his house to find out what happened to his “Official Buck Tweed Two-Speed Crime-Stopper Star-Hoper Bicycle.” What he finds there…well, I don’t want to give it all away. Suffice it to say that this comically illustrated book is a sure fire hit in our high-drama household. Today’s Flavor: Firey and fun.

Click on the links in this post to order these items, or any items at Magpie Suggests, and your purchases will help fund this site. Thank you for your support!

Wednesday Reviews: Thanksgiving Stories

I know it’s cutting it close, but on this day before Thanksgiving, I’d like to review some books for the diners who are sitting at the kids table.

The first is The Night Before Thanksgiving“>. Like the characters in this book, my children and their cousins giggle about the same things I snickered over with my cousins — goofing off at the kid’s table, putting olives on our fingers, and eating leftover turkey sandwiches. Nostalgic and fun.

The second is a more artful story The Very First Thanksgiving Day, which touches on the fact that we Western Europeans owe our very survival on this continent to the Native Americans who shared their skills and bounty with our ancestors so many years ago. Beautiful illustrations and a repetitive rhythm children love. Artful and insightful.

My seven year old daughter fell in love with this book, which she read to her two year old cousin last week. It’s not about our Fall holiday, but it does a lovely job of encouraging gratitude. Give Me Grace is short enough to memorize in a couple of readings, and the alluring illustrations feed the eye as well as the soul. Bright and meaningful.

Finally, I’d like to recommend this pretty, classic story. Ox-Cart Man is not directly about Thanksgiving, but it’s cyclical story of growing-and-harvesting captures the turning of the seasons, while it’s spare bounty quietly instills a since of gratitude amongst our overly-modern children. Classic and grateful.

Click on the links in this post to order these items, or any items at Magpie Suggests, and your purchases will help fund this site. Thank you for your support!

An UPDATE: Yikes! Jen just called and said they’ve had major problems with their zine files and have to abort the project of this season. (So sad!) So the prize for the Tip Rally is now two beautiful hardcover holiday cook books: Christmas: A Cook’s Tour with reciepes and tradtions from around the world, and The Frugal Gourmet Keeps the Feast with wonderful meals for the Jewish holidays and essays on food history and the holiness of gathering around the table. Keep tipping!

Hello Small and Passionate bloggers!

Like it or lump it, the holiday season is upon us. And don’t you just hate it when you let yourselves over-book and over-buy during the holidays? It sure doesn’t leave you feeling merry and bright!

You know what we need in the midst of all the superstore craziness?

Tips.

Yes my friends, tips — ideas and suggestions for maintaining a small but beautiful holiday. It’s time for the first annual Small is Beautiful Holiday Tips Rally.

Got a short cut for the turkey? Figured out how to downsize your gift list? Learned how to make the season holy instead of harried? Let us know!

Put your tips in the comments below by November 25th. A couple of lucky tipsters will be given a copy of The Soulsister’s Guide to a Very Merry Christmas, a fabulous guide for tiny, meaningful celebrations. So good! You’ll love it!

(If you don’t pick one up in the drawing, you can still buy one by the 30th and make the Soulsister’s final ship date. But really, you should just buy one now, because even if you win another, you will definitely want to pass this little bundle of goodness on to someone you love!)

Oh, and one more thing. In addition to winning the Soulsister’s guide, drawing winners will also be featured in a Small is Beautiful Saturday post, where they can highlight their Top 5 Posts of 2007. (Good reading ahead! Yum!)

So go ahead, start submitting your tips below!

A tiny tin-shrine memorial with a dried rose from my hospital flowers. Made for Dia de los Muertos celebrations at Monkfish Abbey, November ‘05.

“Lord, let now your servant, depart in peace according to thy word. For my eyes have seen thy salvation…”

He was very tiny, about the length of my arm from my elbow to my wrist. The nurse, nervous and new at this kind of sorrow, had eventually managed to wrap him in blankets, one small arm extending outside of the heap, his hand so frail I was afraid to touch it lest I tear his fragile skin.

We had wept so many tears for him, our doomed son. Tears in the dark sonogram room; tears when my knees collapsed in the hospital stairway; tears when we told our parents; tears as we waited all the long week to see him delivered; tears in the cold procedures room as the new nurse fled and we were left to deliver our baby alone.

There were more tears now, as we played him special songs, anointed his head in our own private baptism, sang him chants from my Lutheran childhood. Tear as we set him in the infant warmer — now disconnected and cold — to say goodbye.

Later, a union would go on strike and his ashes would wait for weeks at the crematorium before we could claim them. A small plastic bag in a square cardboard box, sealed tight with a twist tie and silver dog tag bearing not his name, but his case number, long and unfamiliar. We would cry again then, finally retrieving his remains, and dusting the water with him on the edge of the sound.

My mother cried these same tears for her first child, drugged and foggy as she came to from the delivery room. Empty arms wondering where her son had gone. My aggrieved father explaining the still birth, full term but not fulfilled. She never got to see her son, to hold his hand, to say goodbye. It just wasn’t done in those days. The hospital ferried him away without even a gravestone. The nursery packed up and painted before she was released to come home. Even now, he doesn’t have a name.

As a young teen, I read a story where a girl hides from school bullies in the shed of a cemetery. There she finds a statue of a child who had died long ago. The base of the statue read, “Our beloved Benjamin.” That’s how I think of my long lost brother — as Benjamin, uncle to Simeon, who also left too soon.

It is not within my rights to name my mother’s son as Benjamin, but I can name–did name–my own. And today, on this day to remember the dead, I remember Simeon David Chapman, who made me a mother, who is this mother’s only son.

Order Here

Mmmmm…Fall is here, time to put on your warm socks, find your favorite blanket and curl up with a good read. Lucky you! My Fall zine is ready for you, just in time!

Volume three of a four-season series, the zine is dedicated to the some of the seasonal celebrations we practice in our home: Ramadan, Rosh Hashanah, Sukkot, a 9/11 remembrance, and our communal meal. You’ll also find recipes, collages, and the next saint in my Saints and Sinners collection. The first ten orders will also receive an extra saint card to give a friend.

May the spirit of gratitude that accompanies this season be instilled deep within you!

Shalom,

Rachelle

This week on Small is Beautiful, I’d like to introduce Elaine Eppler, keeper of three beautiful blogs. With Elaine’s help you can learn how to grow an edible balcony garden, network with some nutritionists, or just take a deep contemplative breath as you follow the seasons. (Now there’s a girl after my own heart!)

I’m sure I’ll be stopping by her place when I exchange my back yard for a window box in our European flat, and Closely Observed is already on my RSS feed. Check out Elaine’s sites and drop her a comment…we’re nice and neighborly down here in Smallville.

Yours in tinyness,

Rachelle

P.s. Interested in moving into the Small is Beautiful neighborhood? Go get a button and let me know you’re here!

It’s officially Fall — my favorite season!

I’m off celebrating and will tell you all about it soon. In the meantime you really should visit here and here for much Fall goodness.

Oh, and you should probably put on some James Taylor and mix up a couple of these yummy drinks. (Wouldn’t Kristen be proud?)

Love,

Magpie

Catie says “Om” underneath a geodesic dome. The dome was taking test run in our neighbor’s back yard before going to Burning Man.

We have a guest with us this weekend – a lovely young woman named Faith from Nottingham, England. She’s received an enviable grant to travel for two months studying how cities brand themselves as “art cities.” Doesn’t that sound just lovely?

Last night, while we were standing in the throngs at Motel, she asked if we were going to church on Sunday. No one’s asked me that for awhile. Since we closed Monkfish Abbey we haven’t even considered what we might want to do about church – or more precisely – about whether or not we want (or need) a spiritual community that meets in an organized, weekly fashion.

For now, this Sunday will find us worshipping at the Church of Art — that is, we’ll be making bamboo and paper mache lanterns at the Powerhouse for the Fall Equinox walk next Sunday. The folks at the Powerhouse and dedicated to expressing thanksgiving and general attentiveness at the turn of each and every season. Summer finds us parading about in celebration of the Light. Fall is a quiet preparation for hibernation with one last walk around the lake by lamplight. Winter finds us feasting and clapping as the darkness begins to wane at the solstice. And we greet Spring by dancing with flowers in our hair as Life returns to the earth.

For me the creative reality of the seasons is inextricably linked with the creative power of the Divine. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, “God creates” is the first thing we know about our source and our maker. In my experience, the church was never that good at connecting the dots between the words of our holy book and the reality of our physical living on this earth. But the artists at the Powerhouse have an intuitive way of doing just that.

What will you do this Sunday for spiritual sustenance?