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.
