It's Saturday of American Thanksgiving weekend, and a favourite little pastime in the morning is to take a stroll on Dawson Street, inspecting the artwork in Patrick Donald's gallery, and grabbing a latte to go.
Today's coffee stop was at Carluccio's, a bustling beanery across from the former residence of the Lord Mayor of Dublin. I walked in, and was deluged with smells of pastries and scones, all decorated up for the holiday season, wrapped around the aroma of roasting coffee beans. It was a perfect sort of prelude for our plunge into Christmas preparations.
I approached the cashier and ordered a latte. And jovially, I asked, "Don't you just love this season? It's such a marvel!" "What season?" asks she. And dumbfounded, I replied, "The holiday season! All these colours, smells and packages, and anticipation!"
To which she just shrugged and said, "All days are the same for me. I don't much care about the seasons."
I left with my latte, in a thoughtful mood, reflecting on my own belief that all days are not the same for me. Tomorrow we will put out purple and rose candles, and start to hold our spiritual breath for the days of the Incarnation. On the way home, walking through St. Stephen's Green, I took delight in watching hundreds of pigeons flying in a spontaneous but perfectly synchronous ballet around the entrance to the park (I suppose that delight was due, in part, to the fact that they left nothing on my head). Grafton Street was sparkling with lights and ribbons and evergreen and holly. This day was not like any other day. Nor would it bear resemblance to those yet to come.
I grew up near Underhill, Vermont, the home of one of my local New England heroes, Snowflake Bentley. A pioneer in the craft of photographing delicate flakes, he finally advanced a theory: no two of these snow crystals are alike. So far, no one has been able to disprove his theory. He called the uniqueness of snowflakes "little miracles." Other scientists, while uncomfortable with his theological overtones, could not dispute the awesome theory he advanced, a creativity beyond mathematics, impossible to comprehend, all taking place within a fraction of an inch.
You can look out on a field of snow and see white. Sad, monochromist perspective. You can also look out on the same field and see a quadrillion miracles.
Whether it be snowflakes or days of our lives, the person who took my money at Carluccio's gave me a lot to ponder, here on the threshold of Advent. Every day is a miracle: seasons, colours, songs, flights of birds – they all advance the mystery. Each nuance of life is a point of inspiration, a dawning of wonder. And here we are, poised to enter a new Year of Grace. It will not be like last year, from the very second we awake.
Today's coffee stop was at Carluccio's, a bustling beanery across from the former residence of the Lord Mayor of Dublin. I walked in, and was deluged with smells of pastries and scones, all decorated up for the holiday season, wrapped around the aroma of roasting coffee beans. It was a perfect sort of prelude for our plunge into Christmas preparations.
I approached the cashier and ordered a latte. And jovially, I asked, "Don't you just love this season? It's such a marvel!" "What season?" asks she. And dumbfounded, I replied, "The holiday season! All these colours, smells and packages, and anticipation!"
To which she just shrugged and said, "All days are the same for me. I don't much care about the seasons."
I left with my latte, in a thoughtful mood, reflecting on my own belief that all days are not the same for me. Tomorrow we will put out purple and rose candles, and start to hold our spiritual breath for the days of the Incarnation. On the way home, walking through St. Stephen's Green, I took delight in watching hundreds of pigeons flying in a spontaneous but perfectly synchronous ballet around the entrance to the park (I suppose that delight was due, in part, to the fact that they left nothing on my head). Grafton Street was sparkling with lights and ribbons and evergreen and holly. This day was not like any other day. Nor would it bear resemblance to those yet to come.
I grew up near Underhill, Vermont, the home of one of my local New England heroes, Snowflake Bentley. A pioneer in the craft of photographing delicate flakes, he finally advanced a theory: no two of these snow crystals are alike. So far, no one has been able to disprove his theory. He called the uniqueness of snowflakes "little miracles." Other scientists, while uncomfortable with his theological overtones, could not dispute the awesome theory he advanced, a creativity beyond mathematics, impossible to comprehend, all taking place within a fraction of an inch.
You can look out on a field of snow and see white. Sad, monochromist perspective. You can also look out on the same field and see a quadrillion miracles.
Whether it be snowflakes or days of our lives, the person who took my money at Carluccio's gave me a lot to ponder, here on the threshold of Advent. Every day is a miracle: seasons, colours, songs, flights of birds – they all advance the mystery. Each nuance of life is a point of inspiration, a dawning of wonder. And here we are, poised to enter a new Year of Grace. It will not be like last year, from the very second we awake.
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