Sister Wisdom dresses for Advent.
Colossians 2:3
That they may know the mystery of God, namely, Christ, In whom are hidden all of the treasures of wisdom and knowledge
Somehow it’s the end of November already. I’ve been standing in front of the calendar on my kitchen wall for far too long. It’s wipe-clean and cheery. I bought it on one of those days when I’m playing at being some other kind of human. One that makes plans that others can follow. But this week I have a driver’s re-education course to book, so I’m simply trying to choose a time that inconveniences the least people. For some reason I’ve stalled whilst eyeballing the little rectangle that has 30 written in it.
I’m distracted by how much the little box looks like a doorway. The more I look the more I reckon I could step in, and as I wait I hear a sweet humming coming from inside. It’s a little dark at first. I can just about see a yellow light at the end of a long corridor, and I gingerly walk toward it. The yellow light emerges as a half open door into a dingy room edged with yellow light bulbs, crammed with rails and mirrors. The crescendo of humming catches me in a hug. I recognise the tune. The words begin to travel on ribbons in my mind:
Dance to your beauty like a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I’m safely gathered in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love.*
I pause, dizzy with the glory of the song, then hover for a moment. I’m unsure whether or not to knock on the half open door and indicate my presence. I decide to peer in first, and there she is: leaning into a mirror and smearing lines of green and yellow paint across her face like a child playing war.
She is dressed in a 1950’s wedding dress with a full skirt, lace trim and a hat perched on her head. The hem of the skirt ends just below her knees, and her feet are resplendent in thick-soled biker boots that look well-travelled.
Dance me to the end of love
Ah! She says, catching sight of me in the mirror. You’re here! I’m glad you’re coming. She looks me up and down with her laughing eyes and remarks: you’re not dressed for the journey.
I’m genuinely confused. I’m not sure if I missed something. I’m not sure where I am, or why I’m here. She sees, and clarifies nothing for me by saying: don’t worry. You just forgot the date.
She pulls herself up onto the bench in front of the mirrors, and motions me to take the only seat in the room. Let’s make time for some wandering. There’s a path formed over time and tradition that we could take: Advent. It’s not necessary, but it’s sometimes useful, and sometimes beautiful. Let’s take a walk and talk 2020. You love a compass and I love company. Do you want to dress up for it?
I immediately feel a little exposed and awkward. I try to cover up my reaction quickly. I’m ashamed of the wrestle between a desire to be someone who can play and the weight of years of taking myself far too seriously. I look up anticipating her laughter but instead her compassion at my predicament gives me the courage to shake it off and dive in. For this journey, I opt for the Mermaid outfit. With boots of course. False eyelashes are my warpaint of choice. Just because.
Good. Is her simple appraisal. She dismounts and stoops between two bulging rails of feathers and diamanté. Grabbing a big rucksack she motions me to follow her lead through a fire exit and onto a familiar street lined with cars. It’s early evening, and a wet mist threads like net curtains from lamp post to lamp post. Leaf-strewn pathways are barely illuminated by those soft orange lights, but they whisper an invitation nonetheless. The park is empty. The outline of Cartwright Hall is in silhouette, and we take a path under it’s arches. For a moment the peculiar wonder of Autumn holds me in the space between beauty and desolation and I forget what I’m doing. I’m suddenly aware that Sister Wisdom is standing next to a bench, fumbling through her rucksack. She pulls out two heavy woolen blankets, and we perch side by side. Warmed by the rugs around our shoulders. The bench overlooks the Mughal water fountains. Blue lights, bubbles, a strange smell like chlorine and the heavy mist render it an odd vista to choose. Quirky eh? She chuckles. Another rummage, and she holding two thermos travel cups of hot chocolate.
So tell me, she says in between sips. What’s on your mind? I hold the flask between my hands enjoying the warmth and deciding which thread to pick up.
Earlier today, I begin, I was writing a text message responding to a question about how we were doing in these strange times. My phone auto-corrected the phrase self-isolation. It changed it to self-immolation. Immolation. The word has rolled around my tongue since. I looked it up and something of its meaning has lingered.
Tell me more, she says.
Destroying or sacrificing someone or something. Usually through fire. That’s what it means. So self-immolation is fiery self-sacrifice. It just seemed interesting to me that my phone changed the word isolation to this. That immolation was linked in some way to this season. Sacrifice can be holy. Or unnecessary. Maybe both. My compass is spinning. Should I be jumping in the next fire, burning for the right side of history, sacrificing myself for the latest cause….
The latest god? She asked.
Maybe… yes. These are the self-immolations of 2020. But it’s another fire altogether that is in front of me. And I’m stalling.
Ah, she says, now I see why you picked the outfit.
She stands up dramatically and sings:
I wanna be where the people are. I wanna see wanna see them dancing.*
She’s so funny. Remembering that I love her pulls me out of introspection. I wait and listen. Clouds of steam drift up from the fountains, and I think of Qohelet, and Hevel. It’s true. I realise that there’s a wistful remembering that’s keeping me on the edge of my yes to whatever is ahead. Memories of applause and a tribe. Memories of good and beautiful fellowship, sweet song and adventure. Hopes and dreams and words filled with clarity. I still want it, to be where the people are….
…. but I want Him more.
I look down at the shiny blue scales clumsily sewn over the dress I chose. Blue that speaks of sorrow and revelation. She saw me tonight. As I look up I realise she’s still standing with her hands on the stone railing looking down over the fountains. Why the wedding dress? I ask.
Union. Is her answer as she returns to her seat next to me. Tucking the blanket back around her shoulders and wrapping her hands around her knees.
There’s a fire you pass through, where you meet Him in the middle and know that you are – and were always – one. My friend Paul chose that fire, and choosing it wove through his words an invitation to immolation:
….that they may know the mystery of God, namely, Christ, In whom are hidden all of the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.
Advent. He is always moving towards you.
And the boots, the warpaint? I ask.
Union is contentious. There’s wrestling. There’s resistance. It requires choice. Have you read the gospels?! One has to dress for the occasion.
I always find myself laughing with her. Her joy is infectious even when I’m half a mile behind the joke.
She moves her body round on the bench, feet up and facing me as I’m trying to re-attach a rogue eyelash. Keep the lashes, she says. Ask any Camel, they are wonderful for keeping the dust out and your vision clear. Perfect for 2020. I move to face her, feet up, hands still cradling my mug of tepid hot chocolate. But I’m not holding it as tightly.
It’s funny. For the first time in a while my insides feel steadier. Like the compass has stopped spinning. Like I’m inside of rest. I don’t want to move. Not because I’m stalling, but because I’m ok.
Sister Wisdom leans toward me and takes hold of my dirty boots in her hands. I begin to cry for no reason apart from the tenderness of her touch.
She whispers to me
Promise me you’ll find it: the life of a victor.
I hear her words and I remember the end of the film Hunger Games. I remember Katniss leaving the centre, the conflict, the loss, and choosing an unknown future. Those words spoken to her by a companion: promise me you’ll find it. I let the words stir me, and wonder as hope uncoils in my belly.
She begins to hum again the song from the dressing room. Taking my hand she pulls me into a clumsy dance around a tree in the middle of Lister Park on a wet night. My eyes are closed. I can see the fire, and I’m not alone. The singer and the song are drawing others in. Isolation was changed to immolation. We are hidden in Christ (Col 3:3), and Union is me and you as well as me and Him.
Joy to the world the Lord is come! Let heaven and earth proclaim.
The Lord is come. The life of a victor. Union: Him, and you, and me, the Mughal fountains and the tree I’m dancing around. In so many ways it has been a year of loss, and I can sing through my tears the line:
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn.*
I know He is always moving toward us, to the end of love. And the fire is a door into my kitchen leaving me in front of my calendar booking a speed awareness course. I’m still wearing the boots and eyelashes because this is the adventure. I’ve ditched the Mermaid outfit in a park with Sister Wisdom. I gave her my compass too. I have everything I need.
*Dance me to the end of love by Leonard Cohen. The Civil Wars do a decent cover.
*The Little Mermaid, Disney film.