This poem for the first Sunday of Advent is a meditation upon the humble matchstick, drawing on the theme of hope, the imagery of light, and the ancient words of the Nicene Creed. Every single, simple strike is an invitation to participate in the Advent reality of hope.
Matchstick
Strike! This is the sound of hope one splinter of wood, dynamite tipped, dashed against a scrap of sandpaper invisible breath of God ignited into a single flame small, but seen small, but just as much of the reality of day as the great, blazing ball of glory hidden beyond the rim of night, light of light, a begotten beacon in thick darkness a rising, first to waiting wombs and tiny, trembling yeses, and all the small forgotten holding candle stubs.
Lindsey Gallant From Small: An Advent Poetry Sequence Composed for the caregivers of The Good Samaritan Society (www.gss.org) Illustration by Elizabeth Evans
I have just a few moments on this busy Saturday before Advent to share two things: a sequence and a secret.
The first is a sequence of Advent poetry I composed for the caregivers of The Good Samaritan Society (www.gss.org). The theme of the sequence is finding God in small places, and when feeling small yourself. It contains a prayer, four meditations on small things which correspond to the four themes of Advent – hope, peace, joy, and love – and a final blessing. I will be posting the poems individually here over the Advent season, but if you would like them put together in a little booklet, accompanied by beautiful illustrations, just subscribe to the blog and you’ll receive it in your inbox. (If you already are a subscriber, it will be on its way to you soon.) My little gift to you.
Advent and Christmas can be a “big deal,” and there’s nothing wrong with that. But this season can make us feel overwhelmed. Here’s a secret I learned in concussion recovery: small moments matter. Small moments – of care for self, connection with others, and anchoring in the presence of God – can have a huge impact on the atmosphere of our days.
So don’t ignore that need to stop and breathe, even just for two minutes, that request for a cuddle, or that invitation to find a quiet moment with God. Small moments add up with surprising weight.
That’s all the time I have for now . . . I’d like to leave you with the first poem in the Advent sequence, with my prayer for a blessed Advent season.
The Prayer of the Shrinking Day
The geese have flown and the black-tipped fingers of night claw into my fading colour a little earlier, a little hungrier, like thin winter mice nibbling the edges of my capacity.
And I find myself growing smaller, pulling this threadbare coat tighter against the cold, tighter, colder, smaller, darker.
Is there enough of me left to withstand the expanding night? Have I shrunk out of sight, out of rightful mind, out of the migration path of God?
Oh heavens, the horizon is lost — do you hear my meagre cry?
I wasn’t sure I’d have the time or the heart for Noticing November this year. Here on the island, it’s felt like November ever since the big storm Fiona blasted through at the end of September and blew most of the leaves off the trees. I’ve been mourning our colourless October!
But I was inspired by a friend who dug back to a post I wrote last year and created her own poem about noticing November. And I thought, maybe this is just what I need after all. When things are busy and brown, maybe I need to pay attention even more. Maybe attention is the antidote for feeling overwhelmed?
Let’s find out! Join for me Noticing November 2022.
It’s very simple. The goal is to slow down and pay attention to the beautiful things in the November world around us. This time of year can often feel drab and dull. But I’ve discovered so many moments of joy and wonder and connection when I stop to notice what’s right in front of me.
This habit of attention slows me down. It grounds me. It helps reorient my vision. And it pulls me out of myself and into something bigger and more beautiful.
You can join me in the Facebook Group Noticing November, or on Instagram @sacramentofsmall. Post your own pictures or reflections on what you are noticing using the hashtag #noticingnovember, and tag me so I’ll be sure to see it!
Each week I will post a new challenge of what to be on the lookout for. This first week is all about light. What is the light doing? Where do you see it playing? How does it interact with the world?
I am huddled under heather-purple wool, writing about the darkness of fall and the sadness of all these hurricane-stripped trees, when little Ivy (always green) pops in the door of the camper with a handful of forget-me-nots.
Where in this browning world did you find spring blooms?
And she smiles and tells me about a giant cement tunnel and a stream, “You know, THE stream” (but I don’t), and her brother fills out the geographical details, and I nod, knowing, and send him for one of my tiny bottle vases.
I take tender shoots in hand, look at happy yellow centres, like suns in miniature, adored by five (or six – one blossom has exceeded the standard) pale blue petals, open-faced to the end of October, with buds still about to burst like a May morning.
To be sure, a giant tunnel is a mysterious place (portal to what other world?), but I had not expected this. Not in this past-the-frost remnant of autumn, which already feels like November, this colourless, storm-reeling island. Not this cheerful nosegay that even smells like spring.
I inhale slowly, absorbing sweetness into my lungs, and the strangeness of this small, out-of-season sacrament. Our reckoning of time is not the only way to mark the meaning of days.
Who is to say the source of deep-rooted signals sent to push this particular handful of blue into the view of one six year old on a Saturday ramble with dad, and bring it to me in the dimming light?
I only know that I was, indeed, feeling forgotten, and now I’m not.
The ditches declare the glory of God, as if the sower emptied all his pockets here in a springtime ramble, and his very footprints sprouted daisies in thanks, all shouting “He loves me!” with glad, golden hearts.
And the rose whose dignity was sorely tried in January now perfumes the edge of the old cow pasture, unfurling the essence of June and the secret of all who wait for their one true love.
