Foreword
by Kate Bennion
Both this time of year, and especially recently, I’ve been thinking about the time I went to Bethlehem, in Palestine, the place we sing so many songs about. It was the heat of summer. Many experiences and images remain in my mind from that visit: many people, many conversations, many expressions and articulations of faith and heritage of all kinds. But what I’ve been thinking about perhaps the most is the day my friend took me down into an old cave. It was below the ground, earth and stones, rough-hewn but deliberate. Inside, it was cool, and there were places for light to get in. She told me it was where ancient believers met in secret, preserving and forming the stories, the hopes that would eventually inform the practices and beliefs of many millions of people. Part of the lineage that led to Advent or Christmas being observed or celebrated at all. I don’t know if this is true, about these Bethlehem caves, or just a legend. But it is the image in my mind that most closely resembles my own faith, or my own desire: A place where people gather, safe from whatever heat, fear, or violence may exist above, to sing, to commune together. There is a scripture that says, “where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them”: ‘I’ being god or love or good. In the cool and quiet, a place of togetherness, a spirit of peace. During lockdown, it was the best and safest act of love to not gather physically, to remain apart, so this zine was created in part as a way for us to gather, to celebrate and to mourn, together in spirit. To observe and share some light even in the darkest part of the year. It remains its own tradition now, where we gather virtually: in another form, on another plane, wherever we are across the world, whatever we are going through. Show me the songs you would sing, were we together Share with me what your hands have made Tell me what you know of what is good
Untitled
by Anonymous
One day. One day we will feel it. One day we will be overwhelmed with this joy everyone seems to have or everyone seems to know about. One day We will be somewhere, Or with someone, Or doing something That will make us so grateful So grateful that we didn’t pull the trigger, That we didn’t call it quits. One day we will be somewhere, Or with someone, Or doing something, That made getting through this Absolute and overwhelming and suffocating And incredible and awful and real and much too present hell, worth it. One day.
Park Messenger by Eleanora Tribe Mixed Media Painting
Bethesda Fountain by Hayden Davis Colored Pencil and Posca Paint Pen
On Friendship by Mayya Cherepova Digital Illustration
Thoughts on the candle lighting at the Mount Auburn Solstice by Leah Kahn
Ache How we ache for those who came before. Candle spluttering in its little jar. How afraid we are that it will burn out And leave us again in the darkness With nothing but the gnawing of loss. The candles warble against the glass A visualization of our grief. Each one a remembrance Each one a poem of light To those who came before. Our grief is heavy But, oh, How we wear it. Are you at peace with your dead? Who do you see in the flicker of the flame? Whose hand can you almost feel on your shoulder? Have you ever known grief to be so beautiful?
These poems were inspired by Mount Auburn’s SOLSTICE: Reflections on Winter Light, an annual event held in the cemetery. After lighting candles in the chapel, we both sat down and wrote a poem—independently of each other and without speaking about it until afterward. Each poem was a response to the warm candlelight, the haunting violin music coming from the balcony, and the cemetery surrounding us. But how we interpreted those things differed vastly, as you can see from the poems we wrote.
On lighting a candle at Mount Auburn Cemetery by Erin J. Kahn
The world was dark So I lit a candle And joined a sea of sputtering flames Lit by strangers in the night To welcome in the solstice Amid the warm and tender light My longing rose like a throbbing bell I thought, with this light we could surely Awaken the dawn at last (When will it dawn The promised morning Prophesied by snow Whispered in children’s faces By firesides aglow) Here on the edge of the land of night I speak to the long-robed sleepers What, oh dead, can you tell me of dawn (When will it come The dawning Implicit in the light Imprisoned in the frozen pond Safe from the fall of night) In the stillness after the violin dies What does the wide night whisper Or is it God who whispers the word That calls you out to face the light Waiting in the dark (Christmas mocks our longing For endless days undarkened For pastures undivided For joyfulness unbounded)
The throbbing kindled by these flames Is not in my heart alone Each swelling tide of humanity aches And lurches toward the day To the time when time will be no more Everything bends to the coming dawn O wilt thou come Emmanuel With love more boundless than the night And speak the long forgotten word That wakens the dawn in the dark (Sitting beside me My sister weeps Where I see God She sees grief Or maybe Grief is holy And maybe God is grieving)
Passerby 2 by Mayya Cherepova Digital Illustration
Light the World by Tyran Schouten Oil on Canvas
Double Exposure 1 by Spencer Olsen Photograph
Weather Vane with Nine Fig Leaves by Allison Walker Oil Pastel Drawing
Central Park, June 2023 by Evan Kirby Super 8 Film Stills
Religious City Marginalia by Kate Bennion Digital Photography
Vaguely Religious City Snapshots by Hayden Davis Digital Photography
Heartful by Monica Reif Ink Illustration
Neighbors in Nature by Liv Kleinberg Collage
Subtidals by Maeser Allen Digital Photo Collage
Pride by Mayya Cherepova Digital Illustration
Queer Hearts by Kyle Durrant
In Yuletide’s glow, we seek joy’s embrace, Amidst traditions, finding our own space. Queer hearts aglow, in festive array, Chasing acceptance, as seasons sway. Through snow-kissed nights and carols sweet, We navigate a world where love may meet, In the warmth of kin or chosen embrace, The queer spirit glows, a radiant grace. Yet, shadows linger, whispers persist, In a season where love should coexist. Challenges faced, as the snowflakes fall, Queer hearts resilient, rising tall. For every soul longing to be free, The Yuletide whispers, “You’re meant to be.”
You Are Always on My Mind by Spencer Olsen Linocut and Collage
Poinsettia Pattern by Claire Forste Digital Illustrated Pattern
Jacint Verdaguer 1 by María José Ink Illustration
Jacint Verdaguer 2 by María José Ink Illustration
Welcome to Adulthood by Liv Kleinberg Collage
More Light
by Kate Bennion
Calendar Girl by Jane Wright Digital Illustration
2023 Annual Advent Zine New York, NY