Christmas Light

Simplifying the Christmas season most always appeals to me. Dwelling in the quiet expectation of Advent helps make sense of the world. These shortened days demonstrate the rhythm of the seasons and the natural order of things.  It’s a time for paring down in order to focus on what matters most.

But one thing I nonetheless crave this time of year is Christmas lights! . In these weeks marking the longest nights of the year, I welcome the cheer of tiny lights.  Other traditions observe the festival of lights in their own meaningful contexts. Hannukah in the Jewish faith is centered on remembering the miracle of enduring light through the candles of the menorah. Diwali in Indian culture is all about lighting up the night. As the hours of darkness lengthen, the illumination shared by all of these grows ever more significant.

For me, the display of light represents the human effort that is part of the equation of bringing hope and cheer, love and goodness, into the world. The stringing of lights signifies the upwelling of what is best in humanity. Light is a beautiful gift that we share with one other, heartening one another through dark times.

Whether or not we say it aloud, the sharing of light reconnects us to a steady hope in the beauty of life, and reminds us that suffering is not the last word. Light is a powerful mystery, and points to a source beyond our everyday understanding. Even a tiny light helps us remember that we are not alone in the dark.

Yet without a connection to something beyond ourselves the bulbs flicker, the candle flames waver, the power goes out. The world is full of darkness, and we need strength, guidance, and courage from a source more enduring than our changing circumstances if we are to bring light. Part of what we do for one another is to hold this connection for those whose who have lost touch with it.

Cultivating light is like the two movements of the breath: breathing in the fullness of life from the source, and breathing out the manifestation of that love into this world. Jacob’s dream of a ladder connecting heaven and earth, with angels ascending and descending, offers a powerful image for this two-way movement—from earth toward heaven, and from heaven toward earth. Humanity and divinity move toward each other. They meet, and it changes everything.

Something within us is made of light, is a vessel for light, and moves us to bring light into the world. Every glowing bulb echoes this divine spark.

Susan Christerson Brown

All Souls

Ushered in on All Hallow’s Eve, it’s the season of All Saints, All Souls, Día de Muertos. We remember our beloved dead in this chill season at the dying of the year. The red oak is aflame and the veil feels very thin.

The human psyche, our collective psyche, is astonishing in its genius for creating the festivals we need—for layering joy and pain, life and death, this world and the one beyond. What conveys life more than a joyful child? And what depicts the nearness of death more than a skeleton? Put those together in our celebration of Halloween, and there’s the human experience.

It’s fun to dress up in another persona. There’s a thrill in wearing a creepy costume with the power to spook other people. When we’re young it’s a game, then as time goes by we apprehend what gives rise to the whole party.

Through these rituals we remind each other that we’re going to die. We do it with candy to sweeten the medicine, and children to gladden our hearts. Joy and sorrow intermingle, and the poignancy fills me with love for this world.

The generations come together to make this celebration. For some, the air is thick with the presence of those who have passed. For others the world is brand new. Fierce monsters and gentle princesses travel together. We meet the darkness with glowing jack o’lanterns, and greet life and death at our doors.  

With candles of remembrance on All Souls’ Day we honor our loved ones. We recall their light and acknowledge our connection to the world beyond. Through ritual, the generations come together and we bridge the distance between this world and the next.

Awakening

First thing this morning, there was a list running in my head of tasks that needed attention right away, or so I believed. I made my way to the kitchen in robe and slippers, reaching automatically to switch off the lamppost out front. The inner productivity police were telling me I was already behind—not a very kind or peaceful way to begin the day.

But outside the window, past the lamppost, my neighbor’s saucer magnolia was in full bloom. Lit by the rising sun, branches and blooms leaning languidly over the drive, the tree’s abundant flowers spilled onto the ground below. The sight lifted me above the weary trails in my mind, and awakened me to the beauty of the morning.

That tree hadn’t worried as it weathered the winter; it didn’t fret about whether it would bloom. It didn’t resist coming to life in the early spring. It didn’t tell itself that opening its buds was too hard, or question its own timing when the days turned warmer. It didn’t judge the number of blossoms on its branches, or their color and size.

Instead, it simply allowed the sap to rise and the buds to form and the sun to invite them to open. It didn’t “do” anything. It certainly didn’t force anything. It allowed life and the season to flow through it.

And today, that beautiful magnolia invited me to do the same.

May it be so.

Susan Christerson Brown

Advent through the Lens of the Mandala

This year as we move into the time of Advent, I’m offering a class exploring the symbolism and the healing power of the mandala. In this season of increasing darkness without the holiday observances we usually enjoy, we need some new way of inviting Advent to speak to our hearts. We can all use some encouragement, and my hope is that this class will help.

Perhaps you’re familiar with the tradition of lighting candles in an Advent wreath during the weeks leading up to Christmas. This ritual is especially comforting as the weather turns colder and the nights grow longer. Four candles in a circle, as if to mark the four corners of a square, represent characteristics to kindle in our own hearts. The Christ candle itself, the light of transformation, marks the center point.

The shape of the Advent wreath and its candles forms a mandala—a symbol of the sacred wholeness that is the essence of all creation, and of our own souls. “Mandala” is a Sanskrit word for circle, and designates an infinite variety of circular patterns. The combination of a circle and square is a common mandala design, representing a union of heaven and earth. This universal, archetypal symbol shows up throughout history and in every culture. It is one of the first shapes that young children draw, and it appears in our dreams as a sign of healing and wholeness.

In the spirit of lighting the Advent wreath, we’ll consider a different realm of life at each class meeting and name a particular quality we wish to kindle. If you wish, you can create your own tabletop mandala and enjoy the increasing light as we burn an additional candle each week.

We’ll also engage in a dialogue with the soul through creating a series of mandalas, whether with colored pencils, crayons, marker, paint, or collage. No artistic ability is required whatsoever.

Along the way, we’ll look at examples of mandalas in nature, art, and architecture, gain insight from C. G. Jung’s perspective on mandalas and what they represent, and discuss the symbolism that shows up in the mandalas we create.

As the year winds down toward the winter solstice and the celebration of Christmas, I hope you’ll join me in making space for a new way to invite meaning, inspiration, and hope to the season.

Details:

We’ll meet via Zoom on Monday evenings, 6:30 – 8:30, beginning on Monday, November 30. The final meeting with be Monday, December 21 (which happens to be the day of the winter solstice). The cost of the class is $80. To sign up, just write to me at susan@mildlymystical.com and let me know you’re interested.   

What this Season Teaches

Through all the challenges of this season, the beauty of autumn has restored me almost daily. In the isolation brought by the pandemic, changing colors offer something new in every walk through the neighborhood. Through the divisive political climate, the trees present a cyclical drama where everything has its season. Even, or especially, amidst the painful realities of the time we’re in, nature is a healer. The landscape itself compels us to savor these glorious days for the short time we have them.

I love the towering shimmer of tulip poplar leaves, stirred by the breeze like ripples in a golden stream. I’m in awe of the maple’s golden-red foliage, translucent in the sun, like the glow of stained glass in afternoon light. Holly berries redden, pinecones open, burnished acorns fall from the oak. Each tree in its own way yields to the turning of seasons, again and again and again. The reassuring rhythm is a balm for anxious days.

In the tender days of a difficult year, this beauty touches me more profoundly than ever. When I allow the natural world to speak, my heart responds. I’m reminded of what I’d forgotten: I love this land, with its proliferation of life and growth and beauty. I love its forests and orchards, its fields and gardens, its grazing acres and neighborhood lawns. I love the variety of what grows here—the feast of color and shape, texture and size, rooted in the local soil of each one’s unique place.

The hues of this season sing of abundance, with the dazzling specificity of each particular shade. May this array of beauty speak to our hearts; may its diversity show us what can grow. May this glorious outpouring of life teach us generosity, and may the words we speak to one another be carried forth on the breath of love.

Welcoming Donald Wyman

As late summer shifted to fall this year, I decided to plant a tree. I’ve been adding shrubs and perennials where formerly only grass and violets grew, but planting a tree feels different. As a child, watching the growth of a sugar maple that I helped my grandfather plant taught me how a tree changes the landscape with its powerful presence. Planting a tree matters, and choosing well is a significant task.

I spent weeks mulling the options for a particular spot in my back yard. I wanted a tree that will flower in the spring, grow fruit I can share with the birds, and take on a pleasing rounded shape. It had to fit under the power lines. After much reading and google image searches, I finally narrowed the search to some variety of the crabapple.

Years ago, a spreading crabapple tree grew just outside the door to my children’s kindergarten. Perhaps memories from those days colored my choice. I can still see the tree full of children, as natural there as the fruit or the foliage. They clambered along its branches and tasted the sharp fruit, theirs for the taking, as their mothers or fathers lingered on the lawn at the end of the school day.

At local nurseries I encountered a plethora of dogwoods and redbuds and cherries—all lovely—but no specimens at all of the tree I was looking for. I was starting to question my choice until, at the third garden center I visited, I found not one but three varieties of crabapples. Jackpot! The nursery guy liked the Sugartyme, the only name I recognized from my research. It’s a good tree, but not quite the shape I hoped for. Snowdrift was another lovely specimen, with orange-red fruit and leaves turning gold in the October sun. The third variety was the Donald Wyman, bearing bright red fruit and glossy green foliage.

I pulled out my phone and compared pictures of the mature trees, read about their care, then walked for a while among the other trees and shrubs as I considered which to bring home. Returning to the crabapples banished any indecision. The colors of the Donald Wyman made me smile. Its shape already felt familiar, like the silhouette of a friend. I didn’t so much choose my tree as recognize it. This was the one I wanted to bring home.

The Donald Wyman is a species discovered at Harvard’s Arnold Arboretum in the 1950s. The tree is named for the head horticulturalist who found it. Nature made something new in that garden, and a naturalist with a trained eye and a continual presence in that place recognized the importance of the fresh arrival growing there. I’m glad he was paying attention.

With my back seat folded down, the tree man easily loaded it into my car through the hatchback. There was even room to bring home the Allegheny viburnum I had found on my tour of the garden center. When I got home and unloaded it, the tree brushed the top of the garage doorway—I had to set it out in the driveway to give it room to stand. I wheeled it around back and placed the container where I thought it should go. I studied the tree from different angles, including from inside the house, continually adjusting until it was perfectly placed.  

Then there was the work of getting it into the ground. I gathered what I needed: shovel, pine mulch soil conditioner, Bio-tone fertilizer, and pine bark mulch, all carried or lugged or wheeled to the planting site. I dug a wide hole, not too deep, and made a nest of well-conditioned soil to welcome and protect the first year’s root growth. I made sure the slender trunk was straight and tall, and the prettiest branches facing where I’ll view my tree most often. I watered it in, and admired my work, and told the tree: I’m glad you’re here.

The next night we had some weather. The sky darkened toward evening and the wind blew hard. The leaves and branches and entire upper half of the tree bent under its force, whipping back and forth. The young tree seemed so vulnerable out there, and some deep and non-rational protective instinct cringed at having left it to the elements all on its own. As if I should have kept it inside? Of course that didn’t make sense. And another part of me, seeing things more objectively, recognized that this is what the tree is made for. By some miracle, it is created to live in the elements, to weather the seasons, to grow and thrive in a full range of experience. I will water it and give it every support I can. But like the children all those years ago, now grown, this tree is meant to have its own life.

In the hour after I planted the tree, a robin swooped toward a slight branch, then seemed to change his mind about its ability to hold him. A smaller mockingbird lit briefly, then flew away. A couple days later I watched a blue jay pluck one of the bright red crabapples. When the fruit dropped to the ground he followed, pecking away at the skin until the round morsel in his beak glowed creamy yellow in the afternoon sun.  

I’m invested in this tree, its place in the landscape, its relationship with the birds in its branches and the chipmunks at its base. I look forward to witnessing the amber color of its leaves in the coming weeks, and its fragrant white blossoms in the spring. Its growth in any moment is imperceptible, yet if all goes well it will achieve a height and breadth that changes the landscape. Life flows through the tree, and the jay, and me. For this glorious time we’re given, we are here.

Moving into the New Year

It wasn’t until I took down a favorite piece of art last week that I felt the poignancy of leaving my office of the past two years. I had been caught up in details—boxing things up, trying to pack for the move while keeping the place presentable, and looking ahead to how I might arrange my new space. But removing the enso print that I’ve regarded so often over the past two years touched me. This good place would soon be part of my past.

Fortunately, our office suite is making the move together. I’m able to continue sharing space with wonderful people. It’s a positive move, the new space is beautiful, and I’m happy to be going there. But change, even when it’s good, can be bittersweet.

The office I’ve created has been a place of growth and healing—for me and for others with whom I’ve met. It has been a beautiful space, filled with books and art and light and comfort. It has been a safe container for the emotions and the realizations that come forward in the midst of sacred conversation.

In addition, the person who offered his services in this space before me was one of the few professionals in Lexington familiar with the Enneagram. I always appreciated that sense of continuity as I work with the Enneagram as well.

As the boxes and furniture are carried down the hall into the new office suite, I feel gratitude for the good things that have happened in this space. As I leave it behind, I take with me what I’ve learned here. I look forward to creating a new space of welcome and sanctuary. And I trust that my practice will continue to grow, building on all that has come before.

May the movement of the Spirit continue bearing all of us forward. May we retain the wisdom we’ve gained as we leave behind what doesn’t serve, and may we move with grace into the new year and the new places where life will take us.

Winter Solstice and Newgrange

It’s easy to feel how near we are to the winter solstice. The exact time of the solstice occurs this Saturday night, December 21, at 11:48 p.m., but we each have our own internal sense of reaching this turn. As the days grow shorter and the dark descends earlier there’s a twinge of dismay. We know better than to worry—the days will lengthen soon enough—but nonetheless we light candles and extra strings of lights to ward off the dark. The hustle and bustle can be a welcome distraction from that instinctive unease.

A dramatic marking of the winter solstice was built at Newgrange in Ireland around 3200 BCE. At the solstice sunrise, the first ray of light above the horizon pierces the center of a long, narrow passage, illuminating a small, womblike room deep within the structure. There is just enough space to stand along the circular stone walls surrounding the chamber’s main feature—an enormous stone basin resting on the ground. The shaft of sunlight at the winter solstice shines directly onto a spiral design carved into the far wall.

We hold much in common with those who built this magnificent structure. Though our culture has made huge advances in science and technology, we are reliant on the same earth and the same sun to give us life. With the growing dark, we are subject to the same ancient sense of dread stirring deep in the psyche. We may not believe that our rituals cause the sun to return, but we wait expectantly and experience a sense of relief when it does.

The festival of lights in this season is something we need, whatever our religious traditions may be. In the midst of it all, there’s a pagan soul within me that insists on marking the solstice. The winter solstice is the herald of the new year.

This year, I’m remembering the wide stone bowl that fills the chamber deep within the mound at New Grange. When I was there, I had the overwhelming feeling that the basin was a place to give birth.

At the solstice this year, I’m holding that basin in mind and asking: What wants to be born in the new year?

What question are you holding here on the verge of the solstice?

Radical Advent: The Old King and the Voice in the Wilderness

Fairy tales often present an aging king and the search for who will take his place. These stories remain fresh because they describe a cyclically occurring crisis in the lives of individuals and of nations.

A king who no longer has the strength to serve, in a fairy tale, represents longstanding ideals that have lost their vitality. When these guiding principles cease to inspire, they need to be reinvigorated. When they no longer spur people to offer their best, or to strive for the highest good, these crowning values need to be replaced. We need ideals with real power to remind us of what matters, and to lead us forward into life. We need inspiration that connects with our lived experience.

In fairy tales it is not the powerful or clever candidates who pass the tests to become the new ruler. It is rather the one in touch with instinctive and even naïve insight, able to stumble upon the right answer or to find help in an unlikely place, simply by following his nose. When ideals have lost their power, we lose our way. we need this kind of humble, grounded energy to gain vitality and aliveness.

Listening to the gospel reading on Sunday, I realized that this search for revitalizing energy is what John the Baptist exemplifies. He is part of the move to release what no longer inspires us, and to search for what has the vitality to replace it.

John the Baptist goes into the wilderness and lives like a wild man. He leaves civilization behind—no garments of woven cloth, no bread, no roof over his head. He wears animal skins and eats locusts and wild honey. He knows that something new is needed to bring meaning into people’s lives. He is radically open to what comes next, but does not yet know who or what it is.

John the Baptist is important in this season of Advent. His was not a quiet waiting, but an active preparation. He stirs the pot, and things begin to happen. Jesus comes to him to be baptized and then makes his own journey into the wilderness. When Jesus returns, he brings a new teaching and a new reality that changes the world.

When the old is no longer working we must face the frightening task of letting it go. It’s a time of going into the wilderness, of being willing to inhabit that vulnerable place of not knowing. We must set aside our barren practices to allow the vital life force to inhabit us again and propel us forward.

To do this wisely means being open to guidance greater than our own calculations. Instinctive energy reinvigorates, but it can also be dangerous. It is incredibly powerful, able to overrule reason. On the path forward it can be the one step back before the two steps forward. We need connection with both our highest and best ideals as well as the material realities of our lives.

John the Baptist is a shocking character. He shows up when a shock is needed to get things moving. When change is crucial but we don’t yet know what will be, we hear his voice crying in the wilderness.

When a wild man wearing animal pelts arises, change is in the wind. It’s time to answer his call and to make our own journey into the unknown. We need to listen for true wisdom and guidance, whether individually or as a nation, to find the compelling new vision that will lead us forward.  

Susan Christerson Brown

Blessing of the Backpacks

The children of Good Shepherd brought their backpacks to church this week. During the service they were invited to the front of the sanctuary to receive a blessing for the start of the new school year. Boys and girls filled the space in front of the pews and into the center aisle, and adults who work in the schools bookended the group.

“Are you excited about the start of school?” the priest asked the assembled students. After a lackluster response he smiled and said, “Let’s try this again.” With heightened energy he repeated the question, and received a rousing “Yes!” balanced with an equally emphatic “No!” from a couple of voices.

The priest reminded them that it’s as important to ask the right question as it is to give the right answer. I felt grateful that such uncommon and important wisdom was offered not only to them but to the entire congregation. He said a prayer, dipped a branch of greenery into a bowl, and flung sprinkles of holy water over the gathering he blessed the backpacks, the children, and the school year about to begin and the learning they will do.

I can still see one girl, about eight years old, standing square-shouldered in her sundress, curly blond hair in a short ponytail above the pink flowered pack on her back. She stood at rapt attention, receiving the entire ritual with dignity and reverence.

The priest asked the children to turn around and see all the people in the congregation who were praying for them as they start the school year, which made some of their eyes grow wide. Their response was a reminder to me of the power of such a gathering, and the energy of shared and fervent prayer offered in a sacred space.

May that prayer multiply and enfold all children as this school year begins:

May each child feel welcomed in their classroom.

May their teachers be centered in the value of their calling, and upheld by their community.

May each child feel loved.

May they make new friends.

May they learn patience with themselves when the lessons are difficult, and celebrate when the lessons are learned.

May they help one another and learn from one another.

May they be safe.

May they be healthy.

May their creativity be encouraged.

May their curiosity be affirmed.

May they delight in the joy of learning.

May they have the support they need.

May they be known and recognized for the unique and beautiful person they are.

And may all of us surround and enfold teachers, students, and schools with our love and care.