The Almond Trees of Provence Advent Calendar

 What is behind each of those 24 doors that lead up to Christmas ? This is after all a French calendar, so I am guessing something grand and sweet.It is a celebration of the Almond trees in Provence and I know nothing of this either. I am as excited as a child to see what this special gift will mean to me in this Advent season.

I have been reading stories of winter by different authors, those stuck up desolate North in 7 month winters and those in more moderate climes.I was looking for a theme for this Advent and a spiritual companion.The Church liturgical year ends this Sunday with a lighting of the purple candle of the Advent Wreath.We start a special season.It is my favorite.

 The theme that came through those readings is emptiness. Nature is emptying out her basket of colors, bright red roses, oranges tiger lilies, yellow swamp daisies.All are fleeing beneath the harsh 32 degree mornings. No more warm sun, just a dull, white, cold one.The waves crash without us.The trees are spare, bare, solid grey. Leaves are dun and brown; it is the Advent journey, the steps of winter to greater darkness.

 When I ask for a spiritual companion, they always appear and this year is no different.She who I have ignored all my life manged to push in and I embrace her finally. Her way to holiness is called the Little Way and it finally makes sense to me.Do small, unnoticed things with love.I can do this, dear St.Therese.I will leave it to the Spirit to find something each of those 24 days that I can do to fill the winter emptiness for someone else.

Perhaps those almond trees will require a visit someday but for now, I will write on the calendar those small acts of love as I await the indescribable one, the Incarnation.

a Celtic Woman's Prayer

                                               

                                                       Splashing my face
                                                      three palmfuls water
                                                 

                                                           God of Life
                                                         Christ of Love
                                                         Spirit of Peace

                                                         Triune of Grace


                                                         Kindling my fire
                                                        thrice lift the peat

                                                        God, kindle in me
                                                         a flame of love

                                                       to neighbor
                                                          foe
                                                          friend.

                                                      my kindred all

                                                          Amen. 











   th

that is no more...

There is a tall, beautiful beech tree down by the flood plain that has its roots spreading into the mud at its feet. I was never introduced to beeches when I was young on Long Island but I know they existed. I have a picture.

 My father is slim, with shiny dark hair almost in his eyes and he is holding a hand. The lady by his side is my grandmother's sister, known as Aunt Kate. She is smiling broadly, his smile is shy.They are standing under a shade tree; my mother wrote the date on the back, 1914 or 15. And then these words,"under the Beech that is no more". Those words have always saddened me.

The Beech is one of  a few  trees known as marcescent, meaning they retain their leaves in the winter. This type of shade tree keeps its leaves to protect the smooth bark that could get burned by the winter sun. I can see them, the few back in the woods. They bring some color of sorts to the dark landscape. The leaves are papery and light beige; you can't miss them as they dot the drab winter woods.I look for them every winter.

The Long Island Beech is gone as is my great Aunt Kate and my Dad.As is the mother who wrote the words.One day, the Flint River beech will be gone as well as the woman who wrote a haiku today in it's honor.

                                               Long ago, a beech
                                        roots go deep in the floodplain
                                             this one here for now.