The people walking in darkness

I've never been entirely comfortable with Advent readings. The eggnog and Baileys, the friends and gingerbread of December have never been conducive to waiting for the Child. When, amidst the parties and food and family am I to reflect on the words of Isaiah: The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned..?. But December is a season of light, and while I'd like to say I am anticipating the Christ child, I admit that I may equally be anticipating Christmas Eve fondue with the family and busting out Michael W. Smith's Christmas. Even if I can find the time in December to do some Advent readings, the excitement and anticipation of the season make it pretty impossible to connect with the darkness of history into which Christ came.

In January, however, I start to understand. It is easier to reflect on the land of the shadow of death when the Christmas lights have disappeared, and yet the days remain painfully short. The parties have passed and the long slow trudge toward Spring feels interminable. This is the time when I can begin to understand what it means to watch for the light...


Black Rook in Rainy Weather
by Sylvia Plath

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
possession of the most obtuse objects now and then--
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.