season's fleeting

So many things coming next. But family first, always.

gratitude and anticipation

There is some pressure this time of year to be more, to do more, to write down all the things we could improve.

I usually go into January kind of blind. Like that time we left Wales, and instead of flying home went on to Ireland with zero plans. We rode the train to the end of the rail and used an actual phone book to call a hotel. The lodge owner drove his station wagon down to pick us up, tossing our luggage into the back with his labrador. We stayed there all week, drinking wine by the fire and repeat eating potato leek soup because it was the best thing we'd ever tasted. We wandered the streets during the day, stumbling upon antique stores and glass factories, committed to the uncropped joy that was right in front of us.

Heading into a new decade, social media has me feeling like I ought to be thinking big thoughts and solidifying specific goals. Instead I'm leaning away from tying myself down to definitive plans, afraid I'll risk missing something because I'm looking for something else. Maybe it's the mental exhaustion and reduced willpower that comes from the part of mothering that requires making many, many micro-calls every day. Maybe it's because my favorite spindly middle-schooler with a soaring mind reminded me that we may only be compost, awake for awhile and then put to work as soil. I value curiosity over certainty, and I love him for wondering.

I don't really need weight loss or wrinkle fighting plans. I can play at the park with the people I love, I can commit to the unfiltered moments right in front of me, not elsewhere and not in an hour. I can scroll less and stretch more, serve compliments like cake, to myself and to others, because kindness counts way more than calories. I can expect more from myself in the coming days, but more connection, mostly. More fleshy, messy, complicated, cherished time with other humans. I can see through the fog and sift through the despair and allow the quiet, routine breaths to become the stuff of miracles. I can hope for the kind of year that may be a tough act to follow.

a steady diet

I found myself wondering recently why the boys like to read the same books over and over. There are bookshelves full of options here, and yet they often return to the same familiar pages.
It may be that the repetition is mostly mindless and the routine is relaxing.
When everything around us seems to be changing on a daily basis and we barely know ourselves, when we're worried about the state of the world and about our very own neighbors, it can be a great comfort to have book friends who are the same every time.

celebrating the magic, and the meaning

leading up