Advent

Everyone took their places, audience and orchestra members alike. The woman in the second row struggled with her mink, while the man four rows back placed a handkerchief to his mouth as he coughed. Acquaintances waved across the performance hall to one another, while the first violin adjusted the tension of her bow. A second bass player adjusted his music stand, which caused the oboist to slide her chair slightly forward. The conductor enters from off stage, with white tie glistening and tails flapping. The orchestra rises, and audience applauds. After a modest bow, he turns to his fellow musicians, and, with his baton, strikes his music stand. Silence fills the room. Both orchestra and audience are still. The performance is about to begin.

There’s no moment like it, and although it has been years since my father took me out of school to attend the New York Philharmonic, I remember it vividly. I can’t recall what pieces were performed, but can't forget the way I felt. More than any other, it was that moment after the conductor struck his music stand I remember most. The sudden quiet only accentuated what was to come. I sat up in my chair because I didn’t want to miss a thing.

I’m writing this early in the morning in a New Hampshire farmhouse. From my seat, I know I will be able to see the sun rise, but right now it's dark and cold. I know the light will come, perhaps later than I’d like, but it will come nevertheless, bringing color configurations that have never been before, and much needed warmth. It’s like that moment at Lincoln Center long ago. The conductor of another day is standing at his stand, striking the stand with baton, and lifting his arms. The stillness only points to what is to come. Like long ago, I sit up in my chair.

Advent is also such a moment. Although we’re surrounded by a culture that seeks to begin the performance earlier each year, there is much to be gained by the moments before. Silence has a melody of its own. It's a time to take our seats, greet those around us, and then, in reverent silence, wait as the conductor takes his place and strikes the music stand.

The performance is about to begin. Another day, unlike any other, is about to begin. The silence fills our souls, as we sit up in our chairs, eager not to miss a thing.

Thanksgiving 2017: The Kid's Table

I never liked sitting at the kids’ table.

With a large crowd each year at Thanksgiving, and people from many families, there was never enough room at the big table. The youngest were assigned to sit elsewhere, off to the side or, even worse, in the kitchen, at what was referred to as “the kids’ table.” Even though I was sitting with those my own age, I looked longingly at the big table and wondered what it was like to sit there. Even though we could talk about things we cared about, like the latest TV shows and who had a boy or girlfriend, I wondered what they talked about at the big table.

In time, I graduated from the kids’ table. I sat in seat wedged between a beloved aunt and an unfamiliar guest at the corner of the table where my legs were forced to navigate a table leg. My mother had me in clear sight to ensure I behaved like I belonged at the big table. The food was the same, but talking about politics and recent marital scandals made the turkey taste dry.

Over the years, my seat improved, and, when there was a wine glass at my seat, I felt like I had arrived. Even the conversations became interesting. No longer at the corner, with room on either side, I noticed the table was not as full as it had once been. I realized my seat came because someone else had not filled it. There was room at the big table because others were absent. I was now one of the old people sitting at the big table.

“To everything there is a season,” someone quoted, when I pointed out the change. Might as well have said, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” I want everyone to come back. I want Thanksgiving to be the way it used to be.

I want to go back to sitting at the kids’ table.

Barnacles

I grew up going to the Jersey Shore, in a small town a mile long. The beaches weren’t as crowded as the ones to the North and South, and I loved to wander along the ocean’s edge for hours. Up from where I’d enter the beach were a series of jetties, and I always gravitated in their direction.

Built to protect the shoreline and the houses on the beach, probably after a major storm many years ago, they begin on the beach, with wooden pilings and wall embedded in the sand, leading to massive boulders leading into the ocean. The jetties provided constant entertainment. Even when the surf was calm, the rocks could insight an entertaining splash, but, during storms, they caused waves to explode, covering me with water and foam.

I liked to sit on one of the pilings and watch the sea and rocks meet. No matter how picturesque the wave, the rocks always brought its dance to an end. Although I couldn’t see it, nor would I be around when it finally happened, I knew the waves would eventually win the battle, turning the rock to sand.

On the rocks were white barnacles. They were tiny, in comparison to their hosts, but I knew not to be fooled by their size. I had scars on my hands and feet to remind me. I have no idea what role the barnacles serve in nature’s drama, but they appear without invitation on anything that remains in the water for a significant period of time. I doubt they have a brain, but I marvel at how smart they are. They know the rocks will keep them safe, and they hold tight. No matter how tumultuous the sea, they’re safe . . . as long as they’re attached to the rocks.

At the time, I didn’t know the valuable lesson they were teaching. Looking out, I couldn’t see the storms beyond the horizon of my life. At that age, I’m sure I saw myself as a rock able to bring down the mightiest wave, but now I know better. Now I realize I’m more like a barnacle, and I can only hope I have the sense to cling to a rock, one that will protect and get me through whatever storm arises.