What a strange approach to Christmas we are experiencing!

In the Christian calendar it is called Advent but I have never felt an Advent like this. No living cribs, no presepi, no Christmas markets. Not even a lovely Christmas carol concert such as we experienced  in Southwark cathedral a couple of years ago with my own school and also at the Convento del Angelo.

Indeed, what a strange year is drawing to its weird close. Unwelcome? To be thrown out like a pet’s mischief on our kitchen floor? No certainly not! We should be grateful for every day of life we have been given on this planet (which a few ignorant megalomaniacs are still attempting to destroy). No, we should be appreciative to have reached this far and to have had the resilience to live through the most life-changing epoch so many of us have experienced.

I certainly do not believe in the axiom that this year is a write-off. Absolutely not! How can we write off the time that we have lived? Indeed, as every day in our lives teaches us something and imparts a  parable, so this year should be a huge lesson for us all. A lesson principally of the definition, of the adventure into our own humanity.

I have been so used in a custom-built community like village Italy to look forwards to the next big event whether it be ‘la Befana’ or the ‘Carnevale’ (at least we were present at the last ‘normal’ event we experienced at Viareggio’s carnival this February), at the events of the ecclesiastical year: Easter, Marian May, Ferragosto, and the local events of our mountain community reflecting the agricultural year: the Fornoli harvest commemorations, the chestnut festivals, the great fiestas of Gallicano and so, so much more. Even the intellectual occasions: the annual De Montaigne festschrift for academics, the theatre season, and the wonderful concerts our talented musicians are able to muster up for us. All gone, all gone with the wind, all cancelled with nothing in our calendar dates to remind us of what might have been and all that has passed. No markers, no alarm calls, no days to tick off the calendar. No hugs, no hand-shaking, no kissing, no warmth of human contact. Yet ever, ever, invisible loving, even illicit, behind social distancing and masques. It is almost like wearing a watch without hours or minutes to tell the time.

What remains then? The planet, around its solar parent, the seasons, the advent of hopeful spring, the ecstatic heights of summer, the reflective season of autumn and now, in the depth of winter, the approach to the longest night, the vigil of Saint Lucy… and the snows on our Apennine peaks. Yes, let us relate to ourselves to the seasons, so disparate in England where my continental friends say that all four can occur in single day. Let us return back to the cycle of nature. Let us remember  the environment. Embrace her with all the love we can possibly give with our tiny mortal incapable selves. Let us listen to the call of bird-song, feel the crunch of falling leaves, revel in the ending warmth of setting rays on our cheek, observe the inescapable changing of our sphere, regain our innermost strength, and just live for one second in eternal ecstasy and joy!