It's Okay

From Instagram:

Yesterday afternoon, something just clicked, and I realized I had to let go of everything--even the good and worthwhile things, like order and beauty in my home--in order to make room for the Christ Child.  Without having Him first, nothing, no matter how inherently good, will be enough.  Letting go is so hard to do.  But we packed up the children and took them outside--in the dark!!--to just be present with them and be in the season.  We sang Christmas carols and John chased Afon, and Roan cried and fell down, but I felt more peace than I had in the last two weeks while I've been mourning over the sad state of affairs in this household: brothers who can't be in the same room without violence, chores falling to the wayside in the face of sickness and disability, and a languashing spiritual ilfe.  There's still so much of me clinging to the world, even the good things in the world.  #KristinLavransdattergets me.  But, like C.S. Lewis says, if we can--oh miracle of miracles!--somehow--let go of all those things, and embrace Him, and only Him, we'll get all the good things thrown in with Him.  ...  John and I salvaged the household this morning with minimal fighting and resentment.  There is an Advent calendar that has no cues or prayers or activities; the flameless glitter candles have been chewed and sampled by Afon; that pretty desk is smudged and dusty.  And you know what?  It's okay.  #Advent2016

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"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2016."

Afon + Roan: in the mall, the automatic firetruck isn't taking pound coins.  But they're still going to sit in it and let Daddy shake it like it's working!

I've had a week.  A Niggle in the hospital kind of week.  Or two.  And if you know what that means, you know what that means.

Advent

The second week of Advent already!  I need this season of preparation before Christmas, and look forward to it probably more than I do Christmas itself.  The breathless expectation is somehow more poignant, like the two seconds before dawn breaks.  Or the moment right before you peek your head around the doorway to see the confetti-colors of Christmas presents left beneath the tree from Santa.

I need the order in my life that the liturgical year brings, and always feel better when I'm back into its rhythm.  It casts away sameness, and the mundane.  It makes each day different from the next, but in an expected way.  There are no surprises but plenty of variety.  Each year rolls around the same as the next.  Humans are ritualistic beings.  Knowing that things won't be the same day-in and day-out, while at the same time cultivating a calm expectation, settles the restlessness of my mind: the way small children cherish their schedules but also fear boredom.



My children don't really comprehend or appreciate the seasonal ritual yet.  They blank-facedly tuck into their chocolate coins and (very much later, after all chocolate has been consumed and exhausted) their tangerines), with nary a thought to good Saint Nick.  And that's okay--because even if I'm the only one who "gets it," it's good for me to go through the motions and keep the traditions.  Good to shake me out of complacency and stagnation.  A life constantly renewing itself.  A Catholic life of constant conversion, with as many chances for repentance and reconciliation and fulfillment as there are are saints in the heavens.



One of these years I will remember to start and continue the Saint Andrew Christmas Novena.  I look forward to the time when eager young hands and hearts will bear reminders, and grasp straws in secret to add to the Holy Child's manger when no one is looking.

Saint Nicholas, ora pro nobis.

(Excellent recipe for liturgically inappropriate "Saint Nicholas" cookies, here.)

47/52 and 48/52

The past few weeks, closing up November.  All but a few scraggly leaves have been scraped away by the wind, and on a few mornings, we found the leafmeal tinged with hoarfrost.

Chasing the Sun, pt. 1

This is the story: we had to go to Bangor anyway to pick up official paperwork for my immigration, and I always look ahead of time at the weather to see how we should dress.  Without the luxury of a car, getting caught in the rain or cold temperatures without coats is a worst-case scenario.  I saw that the sun would be out for the early afternoon, but as the day wore on, it would be overtaken by clouds.  So I looked up all the surrounding areas to see if there were any different forecast.  Turned out that over the sound on Anglesey the sun was to shine all the day long.

(The bus takes us through Conwy, also known (by me) as the walled castle town.)



So after we did our errand in Bangor, we hung about for a bit.  That's the clock tower on the high street where John and I met on our first date-that-wasn't-a-date.  We got some lunch (very stressful).  Then when it began to get dark, we hopped the bus to Beaumaris.



The holiday town was almost a ghost-town in the late afternoon at this time of year.  It was too late to check out the castle, but we played in the park just outside.



Then we sought out this house that I used to daydream about on our walks back from the lighthouse across the countryside.  All it's missing is a garden, but across from it, where I'm standing with my camera, is a little country lane unfurling into fenced meadows and green hills; so that when you step out your door each day, an open road greets you, wide and waiting.

St. Martin's Summer

Called after a brave, good man who could be the patron saint of anyone who has made a mistake, it contains the ingredients for a wonderful season. Summer has not spurned us, merely divided its bright cloak, saving some of itself for later – for the Summer of Saint Martin.

-- Horatio Clare

Saint Martin never fails to usher the last breath of summer our way before the start of Advent.  With temperatures in the mid to high 50's Fahrenheit, we are running about without coats and extra layers; and I insisted we take the boys to the seashore last night, while the weather is still mild, so the ocean air doesn't cut to the bone.  My feet were hurting from walking all day, so I sent John down with the boys, and it was a moment of pure, undiluted contentment--watching the little ones run about with joy, being chased by their dad, with the great, magnanimous Irish Sea looking on.

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"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2016."

Roan:  playing at the park.  He is getting willful and refuses to hold hands when we are walking.  He wants to be in charge of his own fork and cup.  Despite his newfound independence, he is still very attached to his mama!

Afon:  in his bath, part of his nightly routine.  We are trying to keep things as normal as possible for him, but there have been some melt-downs here and there as he adjusts to having me and his baby brother around again for good.