Repeat the Sounding Joy!

Tuesday night. Again. Tuesday nights, Greg teaches down in Hamilton and I have the house to myself. On Tuesday nights I do things like talk to Linds for two hours, hands-free set in use, while walking around the house, cleaning up, organizing. I eat crackers and cheese for supper, or maybe a grilled cheese sandwich, or a quesadilla (yes, I know there's a theme here!). I blog. I enjoy this space; it is good for me. But I am always glad to see him when I get home from work on Wednesday afternoon.

Basil is sitting on my lap, purring. How do cats know? They wait until you're doing something that requires mobility, or until you are just about ready to stand up and go into the other room--and bam, they leap in their elegant fluid way onto your lap, walk in a circle or three, and start purring. It's the purring that does it. I can't resist it, especially when it's Basil. He is not always affectionate, so when he is, I feel compelled to stay sitting, to be slightly inconvenienced in order to enjoy his cuddly company. He is still esconced in his "cone of shame," and will be for another couple of weeks, unfortunately. I do hope we can take it off before we leave for Iowa . . . and Morocco . . . and Egypt. Fingers crossed.

It is cold outside. -3 degrees, to be exact. It is also very clear, and if I look outside I can see Orion hanging above the eastern mountains. Inside I am cozy. The Christmas tree lights shine gently in the corner; another string outlines the window behind me. It is what they call "the Christmas season," yet I am not quite feeling it yet. It is Advent, one of my very favorite seasons of the church year, and yet my life feels too hurried to enjoy it, to slow down and recognize that it is here.

In church on Sunday we lit two blue candles, one for hope, one for peace. Blue banners hung from the ceiling, and Pastor Jean wore a blue stole over her robe. All this to help us remember what season we are in. I want to feel it, to let it sink in.

At work yesterday, I listened to Christmas music, to try to get myself into the mood. As I write that, I wonder--what does that mean? What is this "mood" of Christmas that I'm seeking? What I mean by that is that I am wanting to feel that my life is slowing down enough for me to see it clearly. I want to take time to walk outside and see Orion glimmering in the black December sky. I want to see the beauty around me, the depths of the world around me, to sense the magic, the mystery of this season. That's it, right there: I want the magic of it. The magic of people loving one another. The magic of snow falling on the trees and houses and past the streetlights. The magic of walking with the man I love through the snow, past houses with cozy yellow light spilling from their windows. The magic of feeling that there is love in the world, that all the world is loved, that there is a loving God who wraps this world--with all its hurts and happinesses--in her arms.

That is the magic that I'm seeking.

As I listened to all my favorite Christmas songs playing--O Holy Night, music from the Nutcracker, the Hallelujah chorus--I felt just a little bit of that magic swelling around me. I looked out my window at the mountains, their tops dusted with snow, gleaming brightly in the sunshine. I listened to the words of "Joy to the World," another favorite. And four words played themselves over and over in my mind: "Repeat the sounding joy!"

Repeat the sounding joy. Hearing it reminds me of that line from Garden State: "Good luck exploring the infinite abyss!" Reminds me that THIS is what we're meant to do: explore the infinite (and beautiful, and terrifying, and dazzling) abyss . . . and remember that we also need to repeat, and repeat, and repeat again the sounding joy.

. . . the echoes of joy sounding in the starlight and the brilliant cold air, in the snowflakes, in the purring of kitties and the comfort of down slippers. In the glow of the Christmas lights, in bear hugs, in letters from friends on the other side of the world. In the voices of friends and the songs of angels--

repeat the sounding joy.

Tuesday Evening

A nearly full moon shines brightly in the sky. A light dusting of snow covers the ground, and the air is chill in a very December-y type of way. I left work late tonight--we had a party for our volunteers, so it was not a bad sort of late night--and, at 6:30, the sun was completely down (and had been down for quite a while), the moon was high and bright, and the sky was dazzlingly dark. I realized that I don't often go out at night, now. I usually come home from work in mid-afternoon, and promptly change into comfy clothes . . . or even pajamas, depending on the day. It's the time of year to curl up in a blanket and read a book, or watch a movie, or cook something warm and delicious in the kitchen, or snuggle with my husband and/or my cat and/or my kitty.

I almost went for a walk when I got home--I was so tempted by the clear cold air and the moonlight and the darkness--but my wonderful Basil-cat needed some love and attention. Over Thanksgiving we discovered a nickel-sized scabby sore above his left eye, and we took him to the vet, who sedated him, scraped the sore in order to do some tests on it, stuck the poor little guy in one of those ridiculous and humiliating neck cones, and gave us some drugs to give him twice a day. He hates the cone. I can't laugh at him, can't even take a picture of him, because he is so horribly sad and confused about why he has to wear this dreadful plastic THING that he can't see around, can't scratch around, can't clean himself around. He mopes around the house and ends up curling up in hidden places, unless I can coax him onto my lap . . . and then he cuddles against me and purrs and purrs and purrs. At least we're getting plenty of cuddle time. He has to wear the darned thing for the next ten days, until we finish with the medication, and I do so hope that by then the sore (whatever it is) will be healed and he will be back to his usual confident, Dude-like self. I wish I could explain to him that it's for his own good, and that he hasn't done anything to deserve it, and that he's a GOOD kitty . . . and maybe he understands, at least a little.

I have been reading blog updates from my dear friend Rachel, who returned recently from several months in Africa--Kenya, Uganda, Congo. I love reading about her travels. I am reminded of what a different place she is in her life, a place between places, a place where she's seeking to find her place. And on a purely geographical level, I have found my place here in Missoula, Montana, amidst mountains and rivers and wild landscapes, and I am content.

But on another level, a meaning-in-life level, I think I'm just as much at an in-between place as Rach is. I enjoy my job; it's great to work for a non-profit and a cause I deeply believe in. I love my husband and I love being married, love sharing my life, with all its fun and challenges and seekings, with my wonderful Greg. I love my little house, my cats, my homey yellow kitchen, my garden. Yet I feel that there is more I should be doing. Is this one of those feelings that everyone has? Do we all feel that we're not quite doing enough, that we could be doing so much more? Or have some people actually found their niche, their calling?

I spoke tonight with one of the volunteers, a woman with whom I've had some wonderful conversations, someone with whom I could be friends. She is a writer, too. She spoke about wanting to write more, to discuss writing together, to push ourselves into disciplined creativity, and our conversation reminded me that this is a big part of what is missing in my life right now. The writing. The putting pen to paper, the typing of words on a screen, the formation of ideas onto a page. This writing ability, once which I like to think I've explored and honed and bettered over the years, is a gift, and right now it feels like a gift I'm not using. Sitting here tonight, typing this little post, feels good. It feels like I'm thinking about my life. It feels like I'm processing. It feels like I'm journaling, at least, if not creating something particularly structured. And those are all things that I want to be feeling. Writing has always helped me to slow down my life, to examine it, to hold it in my hands, look at it, and truly see it--in ways that I don't when I'm not writing.

So here is my challenge to myself. To write. To see. To feel. To explore, examine, imagine. And I wish myself luck . . . and a whole lot of new-found discipline.