Pop 89: Tis the Season of Noticing

By Madonna Hamel

A tall woman in a bright red dress was singing in the foyer as I stepped out of the elevator. The violinist accompanying her leaned into his instrument. They filled the hospital with their music and soulful presence. Yet, no one stopped. No one even turned in their seats to face the music. Talkers kept talking; some spoke louder. Others kept their cell phones plugged into their ears, walking obliviously in front of the performers, untouched.

I walked up to the musicians on their break and said: “On behalf of my fellow humans, I apologize for the rudeness. It’s as if they’re deaf.” The violinist responded: “Oh, not to worry. 

“It may not seem like it, but they notice. They still hear it. It affects them.”I just got home from tending to my brother after a major stroke, only to rebound a plane to help my sister tend to my dad after his stroke. Bleary-eyed, we divide the schedule. I take mornings; she takes evenings. We don’t know how long this will last, we are on tenterhooks, like we were with our brother. 

We have arrived at that time in our lives when age will poke and prod at us and make very concrete what once was theory. Now, there really is nothing to do but be present to the moment. Once again, I hear the old slogans running through my brain: “Live life on life’s terms.” “One day at a time.” “Let go of expectations and the illusion of control.” 

Let go. There was a time in my life when I knew I had to move on from a relationship that had too many hardships and behaviours working against it. Let go, said my mentor. But I did, I swore. How many times do I have to do this? Every hour of every day, she said. All the time. Seven times seventy times. Life is not about acquiring, grabbing and clinging. Even the good stuff we need to part with. And, if you can’t let go, then try loosening your grip. Let go of expectations, concepts, ego, regrets, shame, and glories because none of it is under our control. Life is not about gaining control but going with what is presented us.

This is not to say we have no part in choosing how we live. Richard Rohr, in his little book of daily meditations for the season, writes that Advent is the time to look at the expectations and demands we put on our lives and release them in order to make room for the spiritual birth that comes every Christmas. This is the season of noticing. Get rid of attachments and perceptions that crowd out the Mystery of this time of year. “Keep the field wide open to Grace,” he writes. 

Most Christmases, I have no problem keeping the field open to grace and the wonder and mystery of the season. I call it staying in the Twinkle Zone. If that sounds like something out of a kid’s book - that’s the whole point. The ability to be open, it seems to me, is completely connected to the ability to still touch that place in one’s being where childhood reigns strong and clear and wonder-filled. The good news is, it’s not a talent. It’s a muscle. Everyone is born with it. I’ve never met an uncurious child, only grown folks who, strangely, stop allowing curiosity to rule their lives. 

Plans, fears, expectations and regrets: they clutter our waking thoughts. They fill our lives. We say one day we’ll deal with them, when we have time. But, at my age, I don’t know anyone who hasn’t been blind-sided by a shock, ailment, accident or loss that hollers: now. The time is now.

There’s a strange beauty that bursts forth when we show up and notice. Whether rushing to a loved one’s bedside, or talking through the night to a bereaved, priorities re-stack themselves. Big deals seem petty. Little things jump to the top of the heap. Three days ago, I was festooning a Christmas tree with Betty in the community hall in Val Marie. We managed to find all the working lights and loaded string after string on the poor bedraggled fake fir. I ran home and got the disco star from its own perch. We turned off the overhead lights, plugged in the lights and for a moment we were kids sitting under our childhood family Christmas trees. Today, I perched a tiny angel on the hospital side-table and wound sparkly garlands around my father’s bed. “Not that anyone will notice,” I whispered under my breath.

Celebrating this morning’s mass was Fr. Gerald. I recognized him from ten years ago when I lived with my dad after mom died. He was a seminarian from Africa, just starting out. Now, he’s the parish priest. I like his energy and attitude. He spoke about compassion, calling it “the kind of knowing a mother feels for a dying child. It hits like a punch to the gut. You feel it like that. For Advent you must empty yourself, so you can feel that kind of compassion, the gut punch.”

I returned to the hospital as one of the women from the church arrived with her small metal container of Eucharists. She mashed half of a host in Dad’s leftover applesauce so he could swallow it with ease, then handed me the rest, waiting for my Amen.“Your dad’s a keener,” she whispered.” Always first to arrive at church, first in line for the host. I noticed he’s first at the cookie table at coffee hour.” She told me that my old high school English teacher will be on the next Eucharist shift. At that moment, the occupational therapist burst into the room singing the “Good Morning!” song from Singing in the Rain. “Oooh,” she says, looking round the room. “I see you’re rocking the Christmas decorations, Harold.”