Yesterday, a group of us went to sing carols with the
residents of a nearby retirement development. It was bitterly cold, and we were
glad to be able to join them in their common lounge, rather than standing on
the lawn outside, as Covid-19 precautions had required us to do for the past
couple of years. They were delighted that we had come to visit with them, and I
can honestly say that it is always a joy, that together with them we were
caught up in a blessing.
As we were composing ourselves and handing round carol
sheets—that is to say, before we had even sung a note—more than one of the
residents looked forward to doing this again next Christmas, if we are still
here, God willing. By which they meant if they were still alive. I pointed out
that there were all kinds of reasons why some of us might not be here a year
from now—the manager is off to spend Christmas with family in Australia, and
who knows but she might decide to join them more permanently. Part of joy is
anticipation and recollection—this is something the residents look forward to
each year and remember fondly throughout the year—but part of joy is also being
able to accept the passing of time and the change, the loss, it brings. As we
sang our carols, sometimes finding the right notes and sometimes not, sometimes
finding ourselves singing in the same key and sometimes not, we reached for
each next note, held it for a moment, and then released it. The same with the
breaths we took as we sang, or spoke, or simply lived these moments in one
another’s company. You cannot take a breath until you have let go of a breath.
You cannot sing the next note until you have allowed the last note to pass, to
be lost, though not forgotten. You cannot find joy in grasping the moment; the
fear that it will pass all too soon robs us of the joy three times over: of joy
anticipated, joy experienced in the present, and joy recollected.
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