As mentioned in last week’s blog, Advent is a time of recognizing the space of “between” the comfort of what we have experienced and the anticipation of the mystery that is to come. In the natural cycle of the seasons here in the northern hemisphere, we are also “between” what has been released in fall and the new that will sprout in the spring.
We are also in a great Between in our world. The ways of doing things that we have accepted as “normal” are increasingly proving themselves to be unsustainable, whether they be our use of natural resources, our political systems, or even the ways in which we automatically related to people around us. Chaos seems to be the order of the day.
In the the spiritual teachings that nourish me, we are reminded of the cycle of birth-death-rebirth. Order gives way to chaos which then gives way to a reordering. Seen through the lens of nature, we witness every year how the beauty of the natural world “falls apart”, lies dormant for a time, then emerges in a new way in the spring.
These patterns and principles make the process look linear, predictable, even comforting. However, living through them, in my human experience, is anything but comfortable.
The falling apart, the dying, the chaos make us reach desperately for what we used to know. We cling to any fragment of the familiar. In this space we are particularly vulnerable to the illusion of control. It shows up as “if only”. If only I lived in a warmer climate. If only different politicians were in power. If only people would behave differently. If only this or that were different …
If we allow ourselves to feel the grief, to stay present to the ache of letting go, we discover an acceptance of what is. This is not resignation, but rather a relaxing of my grip on how I thought things should be. For me, this is analogous to letting the fallen leaves remain in my garden spaces, not trying to “clean things up”, just letting it all compost where it falls.
This is when we experience the In Between space. We’ve made peace with what has passed, but we cannot yet perceive what the new will look like. Or, we get glimmers of it, just enough to make us wish it could be full reality right now. This is the feeling of Advent for me.
In the world of spiritual direction, we are reminded often of the importance of “holding space” for another in our listening, and for ourselves in our life experiences. It refers to the skills required to be a compassionate presence for another (or myself) without trying to fix or alter their/my situation or their/my feelings about it.
This phrase has come alive for me in a new way in recent weeks as I have been holding an intention to honour the necessary space between what I continue to release in my work in the world and the new thing which will grow in its own time. It also feels very important in these weeks following a contentious election in the US. Some are eagerly anticipating a kind of new order that feels safe and hopeful. Others are deeply disappointed and fearful of what this new order will mean for themselves and/or those they love. All of us are feeling the “in-between”.
It is a space I often want to rush through. I’ve done the hard work of letting go of that which I treasure, and I’m ready to move on to whatever is next, whether it’s something new that has deep meaning for me, or a new way expressing creative resistance to the dominant culture.
Instead, I experience the silent, seemingly empty time that is necessary for the new to gestate. Even grief is more comfortable than the “in between”. It’s like being in a fog bank—no matter how hard I strain or squint, there is no solid shape I can perceive ahead. I don’t know what is mine to do next.
As I look outside my windows, I am very aware that for the next several months, there will be no visible life force in the plants and bushes I love. I am very aware that there are months ahead of nothing growing. The trees look like dead sticks, and will continue to look this way until April. The bulbs I planted a month will not show evidence of life until May.
Our culture has taught us to value linear progression. We value moving from step one to step two to step three, usually the quicker the better. However, Nature demonstrates for us the value of the in-between, that space between one step and the next. It is a space that feels uncertain and unbalanced. We feel vulnerable and we experience fear because we can’t see what is next.
In this space, we are most vulnerable to resignation, assuming that because we can’t see what is ahead, there’s nothing worth working for, no point in staying engaged with inner presence and soul work. It is here that deliberate, gentle self-care is more important than ever.
This is the invitation which whispers to me as I engage with nature’s process. Can I tend this space of emptiness in me with as much care as I do the space of new growth in the spring?
What would that tending look like?
I continue to allow myself space to feel sad, angry, withdrawn, or whatever else wants to be heard. I pay attention to the complexity of feelings, the many layers and even seeming contradictions of them.
I give myself lots of time for various rest practices, including and especially things that delight me. Some days it’s a long nap. This weekend it will be time in my sewing room with a new quilting project.
I remind myself that slow is soul-care, and that germinating the unknown often looks like non-productivity.
I keep paying attention to the changes outside as earth begins her winter silence—the earlier sunset and later sunrise, the falling temperatures, the beauty of the snowfall. I don’t have to like everything I notice. The value is in the noticing.
I reach out to the people who know me and are always willing to be provide compassionate presence. I check in especially with those who are generous with their reminders of the light they see in me.
I would love to hear from you what practices you find supportive in your own in-between experiences. What helps you stay connected to your inner truth and the tenderness of your own heart?
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