Just back from a visit to Vermont, I’ve been unpacking bags and settling back into home.
And I know I’m transitioning because I feel a little itchy, a little uncomfortable in my own skin – like I always do when there’s some growing needs doing.
But it’s more than a change in geography or a return to routine. I’m transitioning from a season of fear, a winter of wondering what’s next, and much too much time in the lonely circle of my own uncertainty. Maybe winter really is a time of hibernation. A time when hope’s on holiday.
Who am I – now – in this next phase of my life?
There’s really nothing like walking around out there in some world other than my own to open me up a bit. The same old me walked unfamiliar streets in my old, black boots, but I felt all sorts of fresh, like I’d discovered new air to breathe.
And just like that I knew promises I’ve made to myself could be kept – after all.
There is in life a perpetual promise of spring. Season after season and year after year, hope wakes just when we need it most. Buds unwrap on tree-tips, crocus struggle up from thawing soil, and sap drips steady as a second hand from sugar maples.
It’s the light. I swear. Minute by minute, we’ve all got more of it. Thankfully.
And I’m ready to make every second of it my own.
These books are guiding me down new paths of creativity:
Fresh air and mountain meadows aside, I owe these women some credit for my new-found bravery. If you find yourself in need of some courage-in-a-book, those two are a great place to start.