Advent, Day 23: You Who Hold Vigil

(Day 23 of this year’s Advent series. Yesterday’s piece was about beasts; today we consider vigils.)

You Who Hold Vigil

Do not close too soon

This time between, 
You who hold vigil;
You who hold
This night in your lap,
Who rock with the muscles
Of movement and memory, 
Sing with the voice of no words,
Bear what was inside, out;
Bear the form
Of the night who bore you
Long ago.

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Well, my friends. 

It turns out I really didn’t know what I was wondering towards this Advent. The question marks have flown by at breakneck speed, life pouring in through their contrails. 

Vigils that last for any period of time are never an act of single attention. 

In my case, seconds of reflection and awe have occurred within – everything else. There’s been work and not-work and cleaning, a birthday and a birthday party; I remembered my mother, and tried to remember the living. I definitely forgot some things, like going to the gym; worked on putting together chapbook collections; continued reading the same books I’ve been working on since August; started a poetry manuscript on cleaning; and signed myself up to make turkey, black beans, and roasted squash to share with others. 

The housework definitely slid. I did clean out the fridge. To make room for the turkey.

One of the more vigil-like aspects was glimpsing the person I was three years ago, when I wrote this collection of Advent poems to send off to my parents. I was able to edit a few of these poems to reflect what I felt was most honest, now – but was unable to share then. The main things have stayed remarkably consistent, however. Themes of uncertainty, honesty, silence, beasts, and miracles – and the many ways of paying attention to and through these. 

All of these themes are still question marks for me. They mark spots where my brain keeps catching on the world, and refusing to accept a single tidy insight.

And my scattered attention stays scattered. Fragmentation is a motif because I have a hard time focusing on – seeing things – in any other way. 

Today I’m sitting down to write most of my Christmas cards. Which have apparently just become New Year’s cards. At this rate a few of them might go out in time for Lent too. (You would not be wrong in suspecting there’s more than one reason why I like to link the two seasons.) The year moves forward. 

Even if my attention wants to linger in the vigil-state of Advent, that’s not possible. Maybe I’ll be back next year. In the meantime, the night of December 24th marks the moment when we are through this bi-stable door, stepping out of Rubin’s vase into the church season of Christmas and Epiphany. Things become a bit more scripted again, and I tend to wander off to look at squirrels and other unknown beasts. 

But I try to bring a few things along. Even though that’s not really possible. I try to remember a few bars of song, the lullabies of this time, the gentle rocking of a cradle – vexing (thank you, Yeats) or otherwise. 

I try to remember the night that bore me long ago. One half of a question mark. One half of an answer. One half of a map between these wandering lines of black and white on either side.

Remembering and looking forward at the same time – through all the fragmentation – that’s a pretty good definition of vigil, and a pretty good path beyond this question mark’s rocking curve.

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