The Cat Sat on Me, and Other Lessons From Advent

I often write about my struggles with perfectionism. Lots of "should" voices float around my head most of the time: the voices that sometimes relentlessly tell me what kind of person I "should" be; the relationships I form and of what quality they *should* be; the activities I *should* spend my time doing when I'm not working; the way my house *should* look for other people, and on and on.

I think it's valuable for humans to spend time and energy to work on themselves; in fact, I think it's crucial. But I occasionally find myself so caught up in the "shoulds" that drive my to-do lists, that my life is spent making lists and checking them off, and not spent being present to what is right in front of me. I'm often very good at creating the structure for focus, and very good at being drawn to the shiny distractions of "Oh, that's so neat that x does this. I should too." Or, "Wow, this email I just read from x organization about this terrible thing going on in the world is really drawing my attention in. I'd better drop what I'm doing and respond to it." But without the accountability of others, holding focus on one thing at a time can be challenging for me. 

On the other hand, I also love being present with people and creating spaces for hospitality and sharing. But I often struggle to marry my love of structure and lists with my love and abilities to listen well, to be attentive, to savor. If you know anything about the Enneagram and this means anything to you, I'm a 9 with a wildly flapping 1 wing, which means these two very different energies and motivations are often both happening inside me simultaneously.

In the Christian liturgical calendar, it's the season of Advent, the time of preparation before the birth of Jesus. It is one of my favorite seasons; I'm drawn to its mystery, its emphasis on hopeful expectation. In our consumer-crazed culture, it is truly countercultural to heed its messages of waiting, of preparing our hearts, of seeking wisdom from within rather than chasing the shiny gleams of bows, material gifts, and nostalgic ideas about snow and reindeer. 

A few days ago after returning home from work for the day, I rushed around the house tweaking my lists of Christmas presents to buy and cards to mail before making dinner. My cat Frodo had just returned from the vet the day prior, where he was hospitalized for a couple of days with a urinary blockage. I was rather obsessively checking to see how he was doing, whether or not he was eating yet, and checking the litter box to make sure things were, you know, flowing.
In other words, I was pretty frazzled, embodying the opposite of an Advent message that calls us to be attentive, but to also be present while being attentive.

I'm so glad I decided to make risotto for dinner that evening. While I might have opted for a meal that allowed me to chop some things up, throw them in the oven and go about my merry list-making way, I knew that we had arborio rice, broth, and mushrooms to use up, so risotto would be the menu for the night. And what is the ingredient that risotto requires the most? It's not rice, broth, or mushrooms.
It's attention. To prevent the rice from burning at the bottom of the pot, it must be watched and gently stirred throughout the entire 45 minutes of cooking. As broth is slowly added a half-cup at a time, the slowly softening rice is stirred to evaporate the liquid and incorporate its flavors into the dish. Cooking this dish is almost meditative, and thank God for that! I had to put all the other chatter aside, and focus on being present to preparing this meal that would feed me and my husband, Chris.

After dinner, Chris and I sat in our den to watch Elf. Frodo was especially cuddly with us that day, probably after the trauma of being catheterized in a strange place. He jumped onto my chest in my favorite dish chair, and cuddled up as close to my face as he could get, reminding me in another way of the need to just be; that my compulsive spinning behavior was not serving me or anyone else. 

Will purr for cuddles. 

The season of Advent offers a thousand lessons. One of the most important ones it teaches me in these moments of hyper-awareness about the to-dos of life--many of which are necessary but not urgent-- is the posture of active waiting. For me, the significance of this season is not only in its invitation for presence and attentiveness, but its celebration of Love that took on flesh; humble flesh at that. In one of my favorite reflections on Christmas, John Ortberg writes about Mary's song "that reverses everything: who's in, who's out, who's up, who's down. Our world said: blessed are the beautiful... the rich... the successful... the secure. Why would anyone listen to an unimportant peasant girl? Then a rabbi came along and he too sang the strangest song: 'Blessed are the poor, blessed are the hungry, blessed are the meek.'" 

In the Gospel of Matthew's account of the Christmas story, Mary and Joseph must rush themselves and Jesus to Egypt, forced by politics to flee danger. When Herod discovers their escape, he orders all the baby boys age 2 and under to be killed. The text tells us that weeping and a refusal to be consoled ensue, as parents mourn their lost sons. 

This is not saccharine stuff. It is a story of profound risk, courage, and of the Divine who lives among us in vulnerability. And do the circumstances of the text we read not ring so strikingly true for us today? Fleshy love is not only coming in the manger. It is at the U.S./Mexico border, wailing in the cries of children and families who are detained, caught between countries sanctioning violence in different ways. It is in the homeless and those who can't afford their next utility bill. It is present in the melting ice caps, the destruction from wildfires, the homes still abandoned or destroyed from last year's hurricanes. This fleshy love is present with the lonely, those who are grieving, those for whom biological family does not provide a sense of safety or acceptance. 

It is also present with us as we make our plans, buy our gifts, and bake our holiday cookies. I pray that it will stop us when we become spinning tops, inviting us to a presence that is at once attentive and that dares to thoughtfully and meaningfully respond to the cries around us. And if you have access to risotto-making supplies, a furry friend who will sit on you, or friends who will share those things with you, maybe they will be symbols of presence for you, too. 

In peace,

Eva