Welcome back!
Happy New Year from Astrid
Hello friends! Happy New Year! Much has changed. The holidays were holidayed in a mad rush, then I moved my little circus to a new town. We’re about 75% unpacked. We now have a trampoline and a very hard working toaster oven. My commute to work is longer now, so there is a little less time for writing, but a much happier place to do it in. I missed writing very much over the past month of rushing around. Returning to the keyboard today was a wonderful gift in and of itself.
I don’t have a story in me yet, but I wanted to share a little something with you all and let you know how grateful I am to have this place to share my writing. Wishing you all a peaceful and nourishing winter, and hoping you are all safe and well.
Again
One morning you will breathe in again.
It rushes in suddenly: the scent of new fallen snow, lemon blossoms, black tea. You find again your body, warm and wakeful, with new messages for you. The blinds can be cracked open once more to reveal a moment in time with weather and movement. The neighbor is clearing snow off of their car. Book pages and blankets rustle. Soft music plays in another room.
The waking is always different: sometimes it is soft and pleasing. Sometimes it is dreadful with exhaustion. But always you are struck by the surprise: when did I fall asleep? At some point, pain capsized my mind and I went below, where it is silent and breathless.
You are familiar with it, I know; the darkness that lingers there. I try not to be afraid of it anymore. I try to remember to move through those times simply: make food, do the laundry. Don’t set off on any new adventures. Move slowly. Greet failure gently.
I have apologized to myself for it. I have forgiven myself abundantly for wrapping my mind in silence and pushing through the dark days, when I must accomplish desolate stretches of wilderness. I have thanked my body for its perseverance, for sustaining on rations of worry and frustration.
In return, I offer it softness upon waking. Warm tea, forgiveness, comfort. I am not angry. It will happen again, and that is ok. There are no promises to be made, except that suffering will come again, we will find a way again, and the soul and body will connect again, one morning.
Have you opened a room for grief? It can be a beautiful soft room, if you stay long enough. It takes time to unpack all of the boxes we are given, each one heavy with reminders that you have loved and lived so generously.
I am often a coward. I still lie to myself. I come home from work drenched in sadness, unable to stomach any more, and put off the unpacking. Some days I am just stubborn and want easy laughter. But we cannot charge endlessly forward. We are meant to slow and sleep when the sun sinks and the frost settles in.
Trust that you will wake again one morning and breathe in. There will be a new scent in the air; perhaps freshly fallen snow, lemon blossoms and black tea. You will be welcomed back by the small sounds of life. You will be home again.
Thank you for reading!
-Astrid