A pagan Advent

There is little beauty on the streets in late December after the snow has been salted and sanded and ground to slush and powder by tires and lies in ridges and heaps like apocalyptic wreckage and pools in potholes and depressions like acid. Beauty is not here. At least I do not see it. It must be found under and above all of this.

In the winter, in the city, beauty must be found in the faces of sidewalk passengers and in the microbial life beneath the frozen sod. And it must be caught that beauty and therefore hope is in the valency of all organisms above and below any cold grey median. Beauty and hope rest in our capacity for uniting.

Life is in bonding. Sometimes, it is only the slush that divides us. It is to us, to clear it away. Clear it away through word and song and art and touch and prayer, even as we wait for the earth to again turn it’s face to the warm light.


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