Apples are not my go-to fruit, but come fall, I do like to find me some old-fashioned russets. They have a weird, tough skin that is thick and almost fuzzy and is the colour of olives mixed with ochre. But get past that tough peel, and underneath is this mildly sweet, un-tart flesh that sits well on the palate and doesn’t pucker the sides of your mouth together. True, I may be influenced in my enamoredness of russets by Anne Shirley who liked to go to the cellar for a bowl of them and settle by the fire with her book munching her apples. What can I say?
The other day our daughter came down wearing a t-shirt that said “Goodbye 2020”. It has been a year. No doubt we all have stories to tell, but like the russet apple, first impressions and tough exteriors are usually not the whole of it.
I remember listening to CBC while driving to my parents and hearing that this virus causing havoc in parts of the globe had been christened Covid-19. There was an undercurrent of urgency to the news reports and shortly thereafter it was named a pandemic. With a hearkening back to days of old, sewing machines whirred making scrub hats and face masks for medical personnel and ourselves. We all needed to make adjustments as we attempted to follow guidelines put in place to keep the most vulnerable among us safe.
A month later, my dad died. A few hours later, our fourth beautiful grandie was born. Sorrow and joy knit together into a day of thin spaces.
Summer brought with it the outdoor visits and gatherings and crops that grew lustily, heedless of the pandemic.
Then the world limped into autumn.
On a Saturday in early November, I found my russets. And the following week, my household and I got Covid (though not from the russets). I tried to stay warm and ease the deep achiness from my back and binged-watched The Queen’s Gambit on Netflix while we followed Public Health’s instructions for our quarantine. Some lovely tucked a box of natural instant oatmeal into a care bag and for six or eight mornings, I made myself oatmeal with russet apple dices on top. I couldn’t really taste it, but it was soothing and nourishing (interestingly, I would wake up famished while I had Covid). Another lovely had a perfect round of cinnamon buns with a care basket. I savoured those buns, but in true Covid-symptom fashion, I could not taste them. We have all since recovered. Sadly, the last few of my russets rotted. My family does not share my enamoredness.
There is a darkness to these days – literally and figuratively. At 7AM, darkness still clings to the silhouettes of fence posts and pine boughs. By 5PM, dusk deepens. The lengthening darkness naturally has us savouring the fragments and scraps of light, but I find the light to be more gentle this time of year. Candles, the twinkle of Christmas lights, even the slanted rays of the sun – all seem less intent on making a point and thereby a bit more welcoming.
It is also figuratively a dark time. Advent hushes the urgency of getting it right with its upside-down and inside-out culmination in the darkness of the uterus of a young girl. While I grapple with much in terms of a faith, Advent’s story of this peasant girl and her delivery of this baby holds both mystery and a certain kind of truth that digs deeper for me than a literal reading. The meaning and mystery, with their simplicity and way of appearing in the periphery, draw in the fragmented and the disillusioned. It is a story that is multi-faceted and that keeps unfolding with invitation when I let go of cinching or uncinching it into or from a two-dimensional greeting card. There is a kindness, a humility to it that doesn’t clamour for my devotion, but rather, is effective by it’s lack of a forced grip. Like the russet apple, it isn’t popular or particularly appealing (no pun intended), but it has a lasting affect.
In these days of literal and figurative darkness, people are suffering in all manner of ways. It can be overwhelming. But maybe there is opportunity to slant in a gentle light with kind words and simple gestures. Like the old-fashioned russet in a plethora of apple types, we can simply be who we are where we are and do the good we can to ease even a tiny bit of suffering. As in the mystery of birth, we can hold onto a pulsing cord of hope and wait with an active longing that helps us spur each other along.