She Journeys

They were leaving at daybreak to make the required journey south. Already she missed home, missed the patterns of her days, even missed little Miriam. She chided herself – who misses a mouse? But a knot of homesickness was drawing taut in her chest, and that cherished rodent was part of home. She liked to be at home puttering at her work, quiet and busy. Soon her work would expand to include care for her little one; she felt that familiar flutter of excitement and fear then pressed a strong hand wonderingly against the robust firmness of her protruding middle. It helped to steady her.

She went about the everyday household tasks of not only preparing for a journey, but also setting the house in order to create a calm welcome on her return. Taking the broom from the corner, she swept the bare floor keeping her sweeping motion low and slow to minimize the dust from lifting. She set her crockery neatly on the shelf by the window. Then she took two loaves of bread and wrapped them in cloth, readying them to be packed into her travel bundle. She took a couple of skin flasks and filled them with fresh water for the trip and set them beside the bundle. Tenderly she tucked the little tunic in along with an extra garment for herself. Just in case.

The wood for her fire was low. That too she wanted to replenish. She took up her carrying cloth, slung it over her shoulder, and moved to the door, noticing that her walk was not unlike the waddle of the waterfowl. She glanced down at the hollow by the door, but Miriam was not home. Outside, she made her way along the worn path to a stand of sycamore trees on the slope a short piece from her home. Her bare feet made small puffs of dust as she trod up the narrow trail. Dirty feet were ceaseless and washing them had become more difficult. Sometimes she wished for someone to wash her feet for her since the child within had grown large.

Approaching the trees, she turned off the path and into the dappled sunlight beneath the sycamores. This small stand of trees was her place of gathering wood for her cooking fire. The relative hiddenness of the place created a sanctuary of sort away from prying eyes. She began scanning the lower branches for dead ones that she could break break off easily. Soon she had a pile of firewood on the cloth which she had stretched out on the parched grass. She stepped carefully, aware of the uneven ground and not wanting to trip. Bending down to pick up sticks presented the same challenge as washing the dust off her feet, but nonetheless, she foraged among the scruffy grass adding the sticks to her pile. At one point she saw a mouse scurry away and could have sworn it was Miriam.

After toiling for some time, the pile of sticks on her mat met her approval. She wrapped the pile and tied it tight then hoisted it onto her back with care. Shifting the weight of it to settle it more comfortably in place, she felt a tightening across the whole of her middle. It felt like a net being drawn up tight around her and the baby. She paused. Breathed. Then it eased and her belly relaxed. A small bubble of urgency took hold in her mind, but she brought herself back to the tasks at hand and placed one foot in front of the other to walk back down the slope to home.

As she walked, she thought how much easier it was to journey on a path that was well-trodden and marked than it was to make her way through the undergrowth of the sycamore grove. She didn’t need to think or pay close attention to the way when she was on the path because so many feet before hers had worn the it smooth. There was ease in that; it was comfortable and didn’t require her thought. And while she was glad for the quickness that the path offered for this short trek and the relative safety she felt on it, she wondered thoughtfully about what could be missed by staying on a path. She had veered off the expected path of her young life and embarked on a journey full of unknowns. No one had flattened a footpath for her to follow; she was creating her own footprints into a life for which she had no map. It was hard work. It required attention. She knew some of her friends thought she had actually lost her way. She wondered the same thing about herself sometimes. But then there were those moments of deep peace and rightness that following this way had brought her. Something new was afoot. She didn’t know what it was but she suspected that the child within her would have a part to play in it. She also knew if she hadn’t ventured off the well-traveled trail, she would have missed something.

Her mind flitted back to the present and she quickened her step. Coming back to her house, she awkwardly slid the wood pack off of her back and set it on the ground. She stooped to unloosen it then began arranging the twigs and sticks into a neat pile by the doorway. When it was finished, she sat down in the dirt in the shade of the house to rest. Thomas the cat wandered up and sidled against her leg. Heavily she leaned forward to stroke his soft fur. She saw Miriam bustling in her nook, a small pile of seeds tucked into the farthest reaches, but the cat seemed to pay no heed to its nemesis.

Turning to the pile of branches, she looked them over then chose one that suited her purpose. She retrieved a blackened, thin stick from the dead fire and bent over the flattened piece of wood. With exacting strokes, she began etching two pointed ears, round eyes, and a set of whiskers. She smirked at how similar the cat’s features were to that of a mouse. If he only knew.

Once the likeness was finished, she set it in the corner of the sill to cure. She imagined the little hands that would curl tightly around her simple toy offering, and a twinkle of anticipation sparkled in her eyes.

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The four Sundays of Advent leading up to Christmas are divided thematically into hope, peace, joy, and love. The Carmelites, a religious order that lives contemplatively while focusing on prayer and active service, use the themes of waiting, accepting, journeying, and birthing for Advent reflection. I first encountered the Carmelite Advent themes through the writings of Canadian author, Sarah Bessey, and found the themes to be a fresh point of view on an old, old story. Refreshing perspectives can lend a new light, and I wanted to explore them. While wrestling with an essay style that wasn’t meeting the end that I was after, the idea came (in the way ideas can unfold in the creative process) of writing with imagination from Mary’s perspective.

One of my favourite reads during the Advent season is a book given to me by a friend called “Portrait of a Woman” by Herbert O’Driscoll. It’s a series of meditations about Mary. He writes with a deep tenderness as to what her journey may have been. This book may have subconsciously affected my own creative process.

Lastly and most importantly, people are going through hard things. Not just in a general sense, but very specifically. The sort of hard things that don’t find their way into table conversations, social media posts or requests for prayer on email prayer chains. It’s young people coming up against difficulties that they didn’t ask for and can’t simply be prayed away. It’s older people finding their lives altered and their independence curtailed. It’s families with no money left over to buy food. My hope is that Mary’s musings may light a small candle in their darkness that they may know that they are seen and not alone. And perhaps a whimsical mouse can bring a bit of joy and reignite a child wonder.