advent of bated breath

on this, its first day, the fairest of all seasons, perfectly poised in its own present, forms again, with renewing clarity, a worthy bridge between Testaments, religions, and styles of narration—and, thus, between memory and hope.

in taking as its subject, its grandest and most humble story, waiting itself, Advent contains—sums—a truth more central than those whose expressions focus on longing, on striving—on grasping something unreachable. its nomenclature, however, wholly misleads; to see the "advent" as synonymous with "arrival" is to dash its original meaning into shards. Christmas completes Advent, but does not conclude it, for Advent is something (and bespeaks something) which can never be neatly "accomplished." the only "arrival" involved in the Advent journey is one which is so immediately followed by another departure that the two form a single, seamless movement. an unrealised, indefinite Advent is even more authentic than the arbitrary four weeks it is allotted, and through which it is erroneously known.

the season of waiting is always at hand; its candles ought never be stored away because, even with them to light it, the road will continue long after the wicks have fallen to dust.