It is a yoga pose. It is part of the practice that I can feel in nearly every muscle of my body. My cheeks get to rest, and that's nice, but then the instructor will say something funny and I'll start to smile... and then even my cheeks are straining. Today, when we were in our chaturanga pose, and holding it for quite a while, Libby asked us to remember that this was why we showed up. It was nearly the end of class and our bodies were exhausted. Holding that chaturanga was a bit like reeling in the last few inches of line holding a ten pound fish. She reminded us that we came for the end, for the arrival, for the realization that this was hard and that was the point. She also asked us to call to mind our "intention", that is, why we came to class. It can be anything- for health, for peace, for the mental space to be kind to our family members, for the patience to get through the work day. As we gritted our teeth and tried to keep our breathing at an even pace, we thought of our intentions.
The work of December exhausts me. From the time Thanksgiving wraps up to the time we gather under the tree on Christmas morning I feel like I am sprinting. There are gift lists and party lists, PTA meetings and church meetings and text threads that feel like meetings to plan meetings. I have one hundred fifty two reminders in my phone to make a craft or deliver a baked good or pick up the sticky hooks to hang wreaths on the windows. Then, invariably, the craft store is out of stock, the baked good is left on top of the refrigerator where we hid it from the dog, and the wreath hooks are irrelevant because the ladder isn't tall enough. What is my intention in all of this? What am I sweating for?
As I drove around today I thought about this. I thought about this because while I stretched my muscles and challenged them and listened to Libby coach us there was a small space in my brain that opened up and gave me pause to ask myself, "What is Advent?"
Walking toward Christmas, for me, means walking toward the manger. It means imagining the strain of pregnancy on Mary. I think of her long journey on donkey back, which cannot have been pleasant if I compare accurately my nine month pregnant self to hers, and the girth of a donkey's back. I think of the wise men and how long they wandered and hoped and wondered what it was they would find beneath that star. I think of the shepherds and their awe at finding a baby born in a tiny, musty room, heralded by angels and yet so lowly and ordinary in his wrinkled skin and tiny features.
Mary, the shepherds, the wise men, and I. None of us know exactly what we will find at the end of the road. All of us know our intention. It is a conglomeration of discovery, hope, relief, and love. It is faith.
When I look back on my Christmases- as a mom, as an adult still trying to chase the wonder without kids, as a college kid who needed a respite, as a child... I realize that Christmas morning has always come. What is left up to me is how I walk the road to it.
As I attempt to grasp hold of Advent, to share it with my kids and remember it myself, I will think of that moment as I sweated through a chaturanga. What is my intention? I came here for this moment.
I had a lot of ideas about how this Christmas season would look. I even stated them, emphatically, to my husband.
"There will be wreaths!," and I probably gestured grandly with my hands toward the windows.
"We will shop beneath the lights at Friendly Center!," I said with dreamy eyes as I thought of the two of us, on a date night, happily strolling in pea coats through the shopping center as we picked out perfect gifts for family members.
The fact of the matter is, we can't get the damn wreaths to hang. Also, we did shop at Friendly Center. With kids. No pea coats. (Josh doesn't even own one.) We purchased absolutely nothing because we found absolutely nothing. Refer back to the fact that we brought the kids.
Here's the thing, however. Letting go of the wreaths and the dreamy Christmas shopping experience feels like work. It feels like the good work of preparing for something that is bigger than presents and pea coats. There is something magical about spending an entire month, especially in this age, to get ready for one beautiful day. We breathe in and laugh about wreath hooks not hanging. We breath out and smile as the kids turn the shopping mall into a personal race track/playground/jungle gym. We strain our muscles, trim our tree, hang our heads a little when the pose doesn't go quite right. We sweat and we show up. We get here. We do the work. We remember that for some the work is even more painful, in its loneliness or its loss or its lack. Day by day and labor by labor we arrive.
I believe Christmas is the arrival. It is what we come for. It is the cool lavender-scented towel we drape over our sweat-caked face as we lay down our tired limbs and smile at the work we did, the space we created. Perhaps Christmas is the reward for the hard work, but it also is the work. It is right and okay that preparing for this one day every year be difficult. For nothing beautiful, nothing worthwhile, was ever born of ease. If I am honest, Christmas morning itself is not easy. It was never meant to be.
If I may be so bold, I would venture to say that Christmas was meant to be a sign of hope, and peace. If that is the case, and we are now preparing for one day that embodies those two virtues, we better be sweating and aching and burning in the pursuit.
