Lent begins today, and I have no idea what I am to give up this year. Much change since September means sacrifices have already been offered. All the missing leaves voids, like holes freshly dug for new seeds.
Or the longing for a long-known, recently departed friend.
Since first being embraced by a Methodist community, I've embraced Lent as the chance to bury old fears, or habits, relationships which bring no good. Truth be told, I look forward to it, because at the end of the forty days, I feel cleansed and centered.
This year, Lent arrived sooner than I expected. Which means I'm the guest at the party without a gift.
Searching around for something, nothing easy comes to mind.
I could offer to write every day for the next 40, but that tends to narrow something I love doing to a religious obligation. And as I understand it, that's sort of the exact opposite purpose of Lent.
Still, I need a gift for the party; not to observe social graces but because I really like the host. I could share dark secrets, or show scars, but doing that in public so's rarely the way to make friends.
Funny, Lent's so often seen as all ashes and shame, overwrought darkness before Easter chocolate and pastel dresses. And viewed through that medieval lens, Lent's not a party I can see anyone really wanting to attend.
For me, Lent means a period of meditation, the chance to craft a holy, separate space for things to grow. And the roots of these new, green things plunge deep into the shaved-off, not-helpful discards I offered at the altar.
The point is meditation, to consider what things to keep, to keep giving life to; and what to let die, to release and stop feeding. Lent provides time and space in a too-full, too-distracted world to remember the beauty beyond the veil.
Because there is a party, full of green, growing things and friends we long to see.
Or the longing for a long-known, recently departed friend.
Since first being embraced by a Methodist community, I've embraced Lent as the chance to bury old fears, or habits, relationships which bring no good. Truth be told, I look forward to it, because at the end of the forty days, I feel cleansed and centered.
This year, Lent arrived sooner than I expected. Which means I'm the guest at the party without a gift.
Searching around for something, nothing easy comes to mind.
I could offer to write every day for the next 40, but that tends to narrow something I love doing to a religious obligation. And as I understand it, that's sort of the exact opposite purpose of Lent.
Still, I need a gift for the party; not to observe social graces but because I really like the host. I could share dark secrets, or show scars, but doing that in public so's rarely the way to make friends.
Funny, Lent's so often seen as all ashes and shame, overwrought darkness before Easter chocolate and pastel dresses. And viewed through that medieval lens, Lent's not a party I can see anyone really wanting to attend.
For me, Lent means a period of meditation, the chance to craft a holy, separate space for things to grow. And the roots of these new, green things plunge deep into the shaved-off, not-helpful discards I offered at the altar.
The point is meditation, to consider what things to keep, to keep giving life to; and what to let die, to release and stop feeding. Lent provides time and space in a too-full, too-distracted world to remember the beauty beyond the veil.
Because there is a party, full of green, growing things and friends we long to see.
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