in quarantine with Aslan

New Year's Eve. Last night I shivered uncomfortably in bed, this morning a nurse stuck a cotton swab up my nostril and poked around in my brain. So this New Year's Eve I'm celebrating completely on my own, in quarantine just in case. Not something I usually do.

But I have halloumi pasta, a glass of whiskey and the complete Chronicles of Narnia. Aslan the lion is singing a new world into being as colours rain down and a beeswax candle is dripping.

 

The Lion opened his mouth, but no sound came from it; he was breathing out, a long, warm breath; it seemed to sway all the beasts as the wind sways a line of trees. Far overhead from beyond the veil of blue sky which hid them the stars sang again; a pure, cold, difficult music. Then there came a swift flash like fire (but it burnt nobody) either from the sky or from the Lion itself, and every drop of blood tingled in the children's bodies, and the deepest, wildest voice they had ever heard was saying:

"Narnia, Narnia, Narnia, awake. Love. Think. Speak. Be walking trees. Be talking beasts. Be divine waters."

never such a blizzard before

It was like a Christmas movie. The heroine puts her frail, elderly mother in the car together with all the Christmas gifts and takes off for the holiday celebrations with family. Only to be hit by a blizzard, take a turn a little too fast and ending up in a snow drift. Stuck, with spinning wheels.

That was how my Christmas started. I have driven cars in blizzards before and thought I knew how, but this one defeated me. I jumped out of the car in my long skirt and beautiful white coat. The snow was up to my knees and soaked through my boots. People stopped to help. Lots of people. (Faith in human kindness restored right there!) My little car proved exceptionally stubborn, refusing to budge even when large men fearlessly jumped into the snowdrift to shovel snow and push for all they were worth.

Had this actually been a Christmas movie, one of those men would have turned out to be the man I eventually married. Well, no. But we got the car out in the end. 

I drove the rest of the way to my sister's house, only a minute away. There was still zero visibility and I had to guess where the road was. I hit another snowdrift and almost buried the car in it. I managed to get it out with some difficulty. My mother wisely declined to comment, beyond an initial gasp. Then I had to slow down for the turn into my sister's yard. Stuck again. Family members cleared away loose snow to help. I managed the last turn and parked. 

I collected my mother and the Christmas gifts, peeled off wet clothes, asked my sister for a pair of dry socks, brushed icicles out of my hair with as much dignity I could muster. And sat down for a delicious Christmas dinner, smiling.

hyacinths and the not-normal existence

I bought a third hyacinth just to make sure the scent stays in my home over Christmas. The pandemic takes another chokehold on society and sometimes I gasp from lack of air, a little. 

Then I remember that a normal life in a normal society never appealed to me that much anyway. As a kid I made up games in the garden or in the woods, sometimes after dark, where I was an outlaw hiding in the wilderness or a rebel spy on an undercover mission. As an idealistic teenager I believed God wanted to send me on an adventure. So I starved in the jungle, viewed instant noodles as the pinnacle of luxury and slept in the company of cockroaches and water buffalos, in order to help God save souls.

Now I'm a settled citizen, with a regular income. I expect lunch to be more than noodles, a generous Christmas gift from my employer, a heated flat with a view, more than one hyacinth on the coffee table.

But I remember that God, probably while rolling his eyes, helped me through those days of lonely games in the woods and heroical starving among the cockroaches. Even my most cynical self suspects he didn't intend me to grow fat in a flat with a view, surrounded by hyacinths, for the rest of my life. Perhaps the uncertainty and frustration will drag me away from Netflix and remind me that I can't save souls but I could at least pay attention to them. There are good news to go tell.

darkness was upon the face of the deep

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.

(Genesis 1)

a month in outer space

December is like outer space: cold enough to freeze your heart in an instant, dark enough to obliterate hope. A billion tiny lights and a lot of emptiness.

What keeps my heart from freezing: those lights, prayers, sparrows, hyacinths, ancient traditions, the beauty of ice, concerts where choirs sing old songs in Latin.

Also, a daylight lamp, lots and lots of books and the anticipation of a chocolate-covered holiday.