Advent Week Three: Suantraí: Comfort and Joy
This Advent, I’m sharing an inner journey.
Alongside the outer rhythms of the season, I’m practicing an inner Advent—a way of remembering moments from my year and listening more deeply to how they lived in my thoughts, feelings, and actions.
Each week offers a different quality of listening, drawn from both Advent traditions and the Irish understanding of the three noble strains of music—songs that nourish not only the musician, but the whole community.
Week One turned toward sorrow that softens.
Week Two opened a place of vulnerability and truth.
Week Three is about comfort, joy, and the endurance required to stay open.
If you’d like to catch up, you can find Weeks One and Two by CLICKING HERE
Week Three: Comfort and Joy
Week Three of Advent is traditionally the joy candle—
the rose-colored light in the wreath.
Not a loud or glittering joy,
but the kind of joy that grows out of comfort.
I always hear the old carol:
God rest ye merry, gentlemen…
Not strive ye merry.
Not prove ye worthy.
But rest ye merry.
May you be rested and joyful at the same time.
Comfort and joy.
In the Irish tradition, this week belongs to Suantraí—
the lullaby, the soothing strain.
Suantraí doesn’t demand joy.
It rocks joy gently into being.
These reflections are part of the soil
a supple voice grows in.
When Softness Arrives
Last week, in Goltraí — the sorrowful strain,
I shared a story from my own year—
a moment when a long-held pattern in me began to soften.
Many of you wrote to say it touched something tender in you.
You may not have had a clear “breaking moment” this year.
But most of us recognize what it’s like
when something inside loosens just enough to be noticed:
we feel a little more exposed,
a little less armored,
a little less certain of who we were.
And then come the quieter questions:
What do I do with this new softness?
How do I stay awake without tensing?
How do I rest without collapsing?
How do I keep from rushing back into old habits simply because they feel familiar?
These are not only life questions.
They are voice questions.
A voice does not open in tension.
And it does not open in collapse.
A free, natural voice emerges from something else entirely—
what I’ve come to call energized ease:
a state that is both restful and alert,
supported and responsive.
Comfort Is the Doorway to Joy
When something in us softens—a belief, a habit, a way of holding—
it often feels unfamiliar.
Most students I work with say the same word:
“This feels weird.”
I’ve learned to love that word.
“Weird” often means something is changing.
It means you’re no longer locked into the old pattern.
But if we don’t comfort the weird,
we tend to run back to what’s familiar—
even when the old way quietly costs us joy, freedom, or ease.
Comfort is not indulgence.
It’s what allows the new way to stay.
This is as true for singing as it is for living.
These reflections are part of the soil
a supple voice grows in.
The Endurance of Remembering
Old habits have deep roots.
They don’t disappear overnight.
Week Three isn’t about never tightening again.
It’s about the endurance of remembering.
Not fixing yourself.
Not practicing harder.
Just remembering—again and again—
that another way is possible.
When you feel rushed, anxious, or braced,
you might quietly offer yourself one simple truth
with these comfort statements:
I am safe.
I am calm.
I am awake and at ease.
I am nourished.
I am supported.
I am allowed to take up space.
I have time.
I have choice.
You don’t need all of these.
One is enough.
Remembering is gentler than striving.
It reorganizes us from the inside.
🎧 A Lullaby Experience for Week Three
Here is a simple offering for this week.
The Blanket Lullaby
Choose a blanket that feels genuinely comforting.
Wrap it around yourself
so your hands and feet are tucked and held.
Notice the texture of the fabric.
The warmth.
The way it rests against your body—
especially around your hands and feet.
Dim the lights, if you can.
Then press play on “Seal Lullaby” (VOCES8).
Let yourself be rocked.
Not to perform.
Not to improve.
Not to do anything “right.”
Just to receive.
If something in you feels moved,
you may hum softly along—
only if it feels natural—
letting tone move through a comforted body.
This is how joy grows quietly.
A Gentle Word About the Holy Nights
All this softening and comforting
is leading us toward a threshold.
Many traditions speak of the twelve nights around Christmas—
often called the Holy Nights or Winter Nights—
as a time for inward listening.
You don’t need to belong to any religion
to sense their sacredness.
For me, they have become the Great Listening of the year:
a time to review,
to inwardly resolve what still lingers,
to ask a living question for the year ahead,
and to listen without forcing answers.
My spiritual friend and mentor, Lynn Jericho,
offers a gentle container for this through her
Inner Christmas Rituals—
readings, reflections, and shared listening in community.
I’ll include a link below
if you feel drawn to enter that listening space this year.
A Lullaby to Close
I’ll end with a lullaby you already know:
Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop…
A cradle held between earth and sky.
Rocked by the wind.
Until the branch breaks
and down it comes—
not into nothingness,
but into life.
Every time an old way of holding cracks
and we allow ourselves to be carried
by something truer,
we live that lullaby again.
This is the lullaby week.
The rose candle.
The warmth before deep listening.
A quiet swaddling of the soul
so that something new
can be born.
