In these winter days, which seem filled with catastrophes, there are also invitations. The invitations can be subtle, often silent, mostly missed while we’re hoping for something else. (That’s the thing to be aware of – we’re almost always hoping for something else.) Some of the invitations are always present: the invitation into silence, the invitation to trust, the invitation to be faithful, the invitation to live by generosity. Though always present, these invitations are particularly poignant in these hard days, it seems to me.

Some invitations are more particular to this season: the invitations of darkness and rest and remembering the gifts of cold and rain. The invitation to learn the lessons of fog and to hear messages in the calls of owls and the encouraging honking of geese. And what is an invitation? Maybe it’s a kind of greeting, sometimes a beckoning, like the slight opening of a door with some light shining through. An invitation can be a small voice speaking from your own understanding – from your own ideals, from a conviction you haven’t forgotten – not shouting (usually not), not criticizing, mostly trying to be kind.

The thing is, we’re always hoping for invitations, wishing to receive them, imagining the joy of an unexpected offer to join, to be seen, to be needed, or simply to come a little farther. And yet we miss so many that are present and calling, day after day.

Today, perhaps we can help ourselves by taking time to be quiet enough to imagine, and perhaps begin to hear, the voices of kindness and courage within us. Maybe we can close our eyes and relax into our breathing and begin to be aware of doors that are ready to be considered, possibly half-opened already, inviting us into places the world needs us to go.

I wrote this piece two years ago, at this exact time of year. It is helpful to me to re-read it. May it be helpful to you as well, in these early days of January 2025.

Years ago, I always started the morning listening to news. It seemed then the most prudent thing to do –- to know what was happening. It helped me feel secure in some way, and smart, and capable, as if it was a necessity for navigating the world, and for being recognized as an adult. Somewhere along the way, I stopped listening – I don’t remember exactly when or why. In some way I realized that “the news” was always the same – it was a very very small representation of what humans were doing from day to day. It was never the whole story.

Slowly I came to understand that there is news beyond the news – news before the news – that is much more important for me. It is the daily recognition of being alive and of being part of an infinite web of life. It is the daily presence of awareness, and an awareness of presence, which coincide with gratitude.

The news of the day in early January often begins with this: the tops of the hills are appearing and disappearing as clouds and fog slowly drift. There is a pink tinge above and suddenly a huge flock of geese in several interchanging “V”s moving across. Small patches of blue sky, and the bare branches of trees in clear and intricate detail. The tops of the hills appear again and both gold and pink light emerge in the fog around them. The air is cold and clean and heavily moist. It is within me and around me, in constant life-giving motion. I am breathing, being breathed, and amazed again to be both here and now.

Thomas Merton once wrote “You do not need to know precisely what is happening, or exactly where it is all going. What you need is to recognize the possibilities and challenges offered by the present moment, and to embrace them with courage, faith and hope.” Embrace is the appropriate word for me this morning – and there is too much for my small embrace, but I open my arms wide nonetheless. With courage, faith and hope comes joy. And that’s more than enough news.