The Sylvr Pen

Written for anyone who gets frazzled this time of year (including myself):

I know, the LAST thing you think you need is yet another item on that wretched list! But that’s why This One Thing is so important…

Got your list handy? Add this now:

STOP!

Yes, that’s the thing to add. And it might be good to add it more than once, in between the frantic, rushing tasks and errands and event preparations. Maybe several times.

You say you can’t stop? We’re just talking one to three minutes, if you can’t won’t allow yourself ten or fifteen. You stop to go to the bathroom, don’t you? Well, go to the bathroom, if you can’t find an undisturbed spot elsewhere. Lock the door behind you. Turn on the fan for some white noise—and just sit down on the floor, or (maybe even better) kneel, and… stop.

That is all.

Don’t have an agenda. Don’t do anything. Try even to screech your thinker to a halt, although that may be impossible. I know how those mental gears can keep accelerating.

Maybe think of one quiet thing, and as all the screaming demands keep jumping up to badger you, keep coming back to that one quiet thing. A flower, the memory of a still lake or a bubbling stream or a gentle breeze through leaves last summer. Or a quiet song… Or prayer. Especially a brief, quiet prayer is good.

The timing can be important. How can you know good timing? Your stress-ometer will tell you, your feelings and attitude will tell you, and if you put it off too long, your outward behavior will tell you that you should have done this ten minutes ago.

Know why we snap at our spouses or co-workers, lash out at our kids, start muttering rants to no one in particular this time of year? Mostly because we’re getting pushed past our physical or mental or emotional or spiritual limits. And much of the time the person who’s pushing us is… ourselves!

You don’t have to ask me how I know what it’s like to get wound up, overwhelmed, behind schedule, frumpy-grumpy, ready to scream, sweating even in the cold, before realizing an inner emergency is happening.

But somewhere along the way it started to dawn on me: Anytime I found myself just starting to get more easily irritated, grumpy, it was a red flag, warning: Overload! Overload! Stop! Stop! Just sit down and breathe.

You won’t waste time, you’ll save it.

And not only save it, but you can use it for probably the most important thing you’ll do all day: Connect with the One this “Season” is supposed to be all about! Pray, brief and simple. (Like, “God, help me!” …Seriously.)

Start now, this day, this hour, to pay attention to your inner stress-ometer. Practice this and you’ll keep getting more aware of the pre-grumpies, and more able to head off the rant at the pass.

And may His love, joy, and peace, be yours this Christmas season! Even today.

~~~~~

The Five Minute Friday Prompt Word for this week:

Reflect.

Relect.

Reflect on how I can reflect Him.

Reflect on Flylady’s Sink Reflections and how even a shiny sink can honor Him.

Reflect on all the shining beauties He’s sent down from on high this past year.

Recall all the “God-incidences,” if you even can, there were so many. Bask in their light, warm in their glowing rays, soak them up in gratitude, and chances are, you will find by this means you are reflecting Him without even trying.

For He is the light that shines in darkness, that enlightens everyone that comes into the world, the light that shines truth and righteousness into our hearts, the light in which we see light.

Let that light shine. Our light, my light–really His light. Reflecting out from reflective hearts and minds, from our light-soaked inner core.

~~~~~

When I was small, we took the train, my mom and I,

to shop in that neighboring town.

Restless I sat on scratchy seats, squirming anticipation,

Till at last we started from the station…

or so I thought!

“No,” she said. “We aren’t moving.

It only looks that way.

It’s the train beside us.”

.

I’ve sat by moving objects since that time,

and, watching out my sooty window,

misperceived a journey launch that wasn’t mine,

more than once.

.

When it’s real you’ll know it.

You’ll see the shacks and bouldered hills go rushing by,

the sun come ’long, right by you, companion all the way,

and heaven a backdrop to it all, roiling clouds a-washing color over blue,

making movement of its own,

with more surprises than the weatherman could guess.

You’ll feel the clack beneath your seat, thump-thumping,

as scenes grow unfamiliar.

Of your speed, your ETA, you may have no idea,

or where “Next stop…” will land you.

But you’ll know that it’s your journey, and you’ll know that it is real.

.

In a world of growing mediocrity,

where qualities like honesty, integrity, kindness, grace,

keep sliding backward, down,

it’s easy to think you’re progressing when in fact you’re standing stalled

or maybe even drifting back a bit yourself.

Accurate assessment of advancing locomotion

doesn’t come from gazing

at back-slidings on the sidings.

Others’ life-tracks, side trips, derails, rarely give us true sense

of where this journey of our own must head

and if we’re traveling full-speed, in the right direction.

What we think we see is oft but mere illusion.

~~~~~

(My apologies. I seem to be on a poetry kick! Next time, prose, I promise.)

Again, as in annum past,

The latest covering

peels away,

tatters hang shredded, dripping in rain and wavering in wind,

sloughing off,

and what’s revealed beneath looks raw and tender-exposed.

Yet, morphing from amber to lightened, the new raiment toughens,

stands taut,

carte blanche for coming days to write upon in scars and scrapes and bruises,

till this cloak also grows less than fitting,

must burst apart, hang loose, rip free, blow off, away.

Every year I stand

in some late autumn rain

and look upon this birch and think these things,

and feel my own dripping ruin,

and sigh,

and thank the Designer of birch trees and people

for consequent renewal.

And I wonder whether birches

ever in their earth-life

grow beyond need

for shredding, shedding, renewal.

And I think I know the answer.

~~~~~

Lazy afternoon. Sunday snooze—deep one, induced by leftover Thanksgiving turkey for dinner.

Suddenly, a gunshot, jolting me awake!

The mental blur barely clears before another startle hits me. Then I laugh.

The shot reminds me Deer Hunting Season starts next morning, which around here sometimes sounds like an outbreak of war. (Or even the day before, like now, when neighboring sportsmen “sight in” their guns. And yes, I capitalize the day because in my little section of world geography it’s a state holiday, with schools and even some businesses closed.)

Then thoughts of the calendar make me realize… and sit up straight. It’s also First Sunday of Advent!

We’ve already moved past dinner at noontime—even past afternoon nap! And I’ve completely forgotten!

Advent, with the Sunday candles and readings and the thoughts it all stirs, has deepened in meaning and worth for me through recent years. I don’t want to lose all that by the wayside.

And the wayside, that’s what makes me laugh. I realize what an oddball mix the day really is, and how the calendar’s crazy conglomeration has managed to waylay me!

Post-Thanksgiving Sunday. Eve of Deer Hunting Season. First Sunday of Advent. All the same day. And all that intermingled with the nearby dates: Black Friday, Small Business Saturday, Cyber Monday, and—around here—“Santa’s Sleigh Ride” (open house shopping tour) Day (like all those other Big Dates, created to stir up sales).

So, this First Advent Sunday, up I get, and try to rescue Advent…

This was last Sunday. The day was cold and damp, the hour was getting late, and the sinus infection I thought I’d overcome now seemed to be re-overcoming me with a vengeance. Besides, it was a day for Sabbath resting, not laborious slogging among trees and bushes, clipping greens and vines for wreath-weaving.

As for Advent candles, I’d forgotten to buy any new ones because the calendar had run right past me. As I clawed my way through my drawerful of votives and stubs and half-used tapers, no set of four pristine candles of any color jumped up and met me. But I did have last year’s Advent leftovers…

Thus, our minimalist Advent “wreath” to start lighting after our minimalist supper.

This week wasn’t much better. After mostly holing up inside as the weather chilled outside, and doing minimal labor, still trying to recover health, I merely threw a cloth on the table and plopped the candleholder and charger atop it. I also found a fairly presentable white pillar for the middle. So,

Second week of Minimalist Advent:

But…

The truth gleamed through, clear and bright as that Bethlehem star: It isn’t the trappings that make for the meaning. It’s the meaning itself. And the meaning of Christ’s coming, first to the Bethlehem darkness of two millennia past, and His future (soon) return as Conquering Judge to this present world’s darkness, glows vivid with import and hope.

I may or may not add greens to the Advent “wreath” by next Sunday. Now I’m thinking instead of lighting three candles in a darkened room, with all other light extinguished, reminder of that hope in the dark.

~~~~~

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