Silent Night
I joined a FaceBook group called the The Green Witches. What a lovely group. Polite, courteous, creative, and inspirational. Rather unusual in my experience on social media. At any rate, inspired by this group, I have been creating Christmas here at FoxHaven. Witch balls, yule log, wreath, garlands, and natural gifts. The 100 acre wood that we steward is an abundant treasure trove. Much better than any mall or Agora. Oddly enough, Her gifts seems more abundant at this fallow time of year.
In my fairy tale classes we are reading and translating the winter tale, The White Bear King. I encouraged my students to make their own ‘dream crown/wreath’ and feel into their bodies what it would be like to be the ‘white bear king’ and his bride, the ‘flame bright queen’. I hope they will take up the challenge and forage in nature for Her gifts and treasures. The stories that will come from this adventure will surely warm hearts, and when told around the feast table or in front of the crackling fire, will make memories.
We hosted a gathering here at Foxhaven this past weekend. A former student and her family came to share our forest and our food. What a lovely time of laughter and authentic Persian tea, and of course, stories. Mama and her daughter told a story from Iran called ‘The Pomegranate Princess’. The heavy accent alongside the corrections, translations, and clarifications from mother to daughter and daughter to mother had us all rapt withal. Truly a multicultural and multi-generational gathering. The remembered setting for the ancient story was equally as magical. We were told how, in the home country, marble urns of ash were placed beneath a low table that was then covered with a heavy quilt. The storytellers and the story listeners would be seated on cushions with their feet tucked under the blanket against the nighttime chill. These would be solstice stories. Told as the days shortened and the long night reached its zenith. Stories told to remember the light and the warmth. It is not a surprise that the pink candle of Hope is the 2nd to last candle on the Advent wreath. This is when hope is most needed. Here and abroad. When it is the darkest. We were told that the feasting table would be laid with the fruits of the season. I can only imagine the fruits of so far away a land. Of course, the globus and succulent pomegranate was centre stage. In this modern retelling of the story on Saturday night, around a table laid with bison stew, coal baked sweet potatoes, and grainy bread, Christian and Muslim stories were shared. Laughter and loved flowed freely and something of what we could be was constellated. As I looked around the table at the black, brown, Asian and white faces, as I opened to the realization of the decades, miles, experiences, and borders traversed to arrive at that very shared and sacred moment, I thought my heart would surely shatter with the overflowing of Grace.
This former student of mine has stayed in my life for almost 30 years. Her oldest daughter is almost the age she was when she came into my guidance office in an inner-city high school. Those were hard times for her, newly born into a country that she neither understood nor was entirely understanding. Yet, life brought us together and stretched us both to find places and people to bridge the great divide between the Middle East and southwestern Ontario. Now, decades later, her four beautiful children, loving husband, best friend, and mother graced our table in a way that I was once honoured to grace their carpet.
At the high school where teacher met student who became more, the teaching staff held a silent auction every year in the staff room at Christmas time. We were each encouraged to bring our gits, our crafts, and our donations so that money could be raised for our ‘needy student fund’. Talk about a community building activity. Inspirational. How wonderful it was to see the handiwork of my colleagues; the knitted sweaters, the handmade wooden pens, the fancy cookies and cakes. It was a pleasure to bid and honour both the creator and the Cause we were united under. When the money had been allocated to the student or family that seemed to need the help, a guidance counsellor was invited to discretely offer a gift card to the student and/or their family. The gift card was for the grocery store so that no one would go hungry and special treats of the season could be purchased for the kids. The gift cards were well appreciated and well used.
When I offered one to this student and her family of 9 siblings, she accepted it with grace and a certain measure of confusion. That it was followed up two days later with an invitation to dinner confused me. I checked with my administration about boundaries and we all decided it best to accept the invitation. Nervously I showed up alone, not knowing what would greet me or how to behave at such an alien gathering.
Never have I felt more honoured. I would say every cent of the gift card was spent on the lavish feast that was offered. The room was filled with family, neighbours, and distant relatives. My hosts even bought a turkey because they heard that is what Canadians eat at Christmas. Turkey was the last thing I wanted to taste given the exotic and spiced dishes arranged on the carpet. It was by far the best Christmas feast I have ever eaten. I still don’t know how so much richness and generosity of spirit came from that moderate gift card and that little kitchen. Why is it that those with so little offer so much? How is it that the gift giver is honoured more than the gift? When is it that the feast that is not part of your religion or culture is still celebrated with respect for the other? Where is the stranger the guest and something deeper and more eternal is touched regardless of differences and maybe even because of them?
Years later when I was alone at Christmas, choosing to remain in Switzerland, preparing for my early January examinations, I remembered that feast. I was perhaps feeling sorry for myself and did not want to pass Christmas Eve alone in my little dorm room. Instead, I booked a small hotel for one night at Einsiedeln. This is a place where the Black Madonna and Kali merge. Christians and Hindus make pilgrimages to her chapel. Homesick as I was during this holiday time, I thought best to be in the company of strangers than to be alone. I took myself to midnight Mass. I was feeling a bit like an alien in a foreign land and the Mass would be a familiar touchstone. Much like that family from Iran probably felt in Canada all those years ago. Maybe like a carpenter and his pregnant wife might have felt in Bethlehem.
At the stroke of midnight, the lights in the grand cathedral were extinguished and for about 30 seconds we stood together in the dark. I could not see my hand in front of my face but I could feel the warmth of the almost synchronized breathing all around me. Then, out of the darkness and the hush, the haunting strings of a single violin began to play Silent Night. A single violin and a single candle. Then, taper by taper, the light was passed and the strings were joined by an orchestra and choir. From penitent to penitent, from stranger to stranger, the light grew and together we joined in the chorus.
Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright…
I sang out in English. Beside me sang a voice in German, and French, and Swiss German, and Italian, and languages I cannot identify. Yet, we sang. Together. The lump of loneliness in my heart and in my throat burst and the heavens opened with a new revelation. Again. As I walked back to my little room in that village hotel, as I felt my own breath warm against the frosty night, as I glimpsed the cascade of stars against the black sphere, I felt communion in the full sense of the word. On that silent night, that holy night, I felt how much more we are when we gather. How much greater our capacity. How generous our open hearts. That night taught me how much the tribal soul needs a tribe. Though we long to sleep in heavenly peace, that is not what is needed for these dark times. What we truly need is to face our earthy conflicts and bear our differences, the way a Persian carpet laden with a feast bears a cornucopia of tastes, spices, flavours. And bear the mistakes, and the misunderstandings. Like the time I unknowingly brought pork paté to a Muslim home or opened a bottle of wine, and was neither shamed non rejected. Tolerance. Forbearance. Respect. Like the pomegranate, the thick skin of our differences must be peeled back to find the luscious fruit within the labyrinth of the human heart. Oh, please, let us stain our linens with the crimson juice of the pomegranate rather than the blood of our children.
One of my Green Witch projects on the weekend was to make a Yule Log Advent candle. I will light a beeswax candle for each week of waiting. In this way I will hold a candle against the darkness and try to be a light. Week by week. Wick by wick. I will marry the pagan traditions of Yule with my Catholic upbringing. I will invite everyone to my table regardless of creed or colour. Like the misshaped and discarded root that now holds the Advent light, I will make a prayer of waiting. Come New Year’s Eve, I will surrender this flawed log to the fire as one year dies and a new year is born. In all action and inaction, I hope to cultivate a spirit that bridges worlds, first in me, next in all who gather at my table, and finally and hopefully, in the tribal soul.
Beginning here, with these word seeds, delivered with love into the distance, join me. Out of your own darkness, in your own way, in your own language, with your own festive feasting, let us find the will to sing together.
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child
Holy Infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace