“What I want to say is that the past is the past, and the present is what life is, and you are capable of choosing what that will be, dear citizen. So come to the pond, or the river of your imagination, or the harbor of your longing, and put your lips to the world. And live your life.”
-Mary Oliver, Red Bird
The new year has finally arrived, and, like so many others, I could not be more grateful to be leaving 2021 behind. I’ve heard some say it’s a silly gesture to think that one finite date each year can bring about infinite change, and partially they are right. Yet what a beautiful and important symbol it is. To clear the slate, to write our world upon freshly fallen snow.
Change can happen anytime, anywhere. But how much easier it is when the setting is new. We take trips to far away lands, attend workshops and retreats, take on a new job or volunteer opportunity. Or, we flip the calendar page.
Earlier today I did something new. I bundled myself in blankets and warm socks, sat myself outside at our balcony table surrounded by snow, and, coffee in hand, read the poetry of Mary Oliver. As seagulls cried above, magpies nested, and the crisp winter air filled my lungs, I marveled that I had never thought to do this before. A winter paradise, literally steps outside our living room door, ignored. Of course I had taken advantage to step out for short periods of time, to capture the stars or the snowflakes, but never to stay for long.
This idea was brought about by tendonitis, initially a seemingly innocuous visitor that has left me dependent upon crutches for over five weeks now, with no set date of departure. Crutches in ice and snow is a whole new adventure in itself, and while they’ve been a glorious lifeline, it’s been all too easy re-tweak and re-injure, setting the process back all over again. Anyone who’s had an injury for long knows the fog that can settle in. Our doors to release are slammed shut, leaving us feeling caged and trapped. For me those doors were long weekend trail runs, treks to the harbor, the fresh air of forest hikes, late night strolls with an audiobook… all absences impossible not to mourn. I’ve stared at what I’ve lost for so long that I failed to see the windows opening right before my eyes.
Sitting there on the balcony in the January cold, I was brought back to a conversation I had while hiking with an amazingly inspiring friend back in the beginning of 2020, just a few weeks before I left the states. I told her that each day I planned to do something that made me feel truly and fully alive, anything that woke me up to the glory and wonder surrounding me. The plan was brilliant, but sadly short-lived. It’s astonishing, and tragic, how difficult it can be to find such things in life, swept away by the mundane reality of jobs, housework, paperwork, a pandemic that shrinks our sea of choices in life to a tide pool.
But have you ever really gazed into a tide pool? The life is teaming, bright in color and thriving. Starfish, barnacles, crabs, sponges, sea grass, the list goes on. It brings to mind a line I so love by W. B. Yeats:
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
As with all situations, my windows were there. It just took me a while to notice. While I’m eagerly awaiting my recovery, I’ve for a time been given a gift of slowing down, of noticing things that passed me by. The shadow of a tree projected onto the facade of a building. The sparkle of sunlight reflecting off an icicle. Staying inside more means I have more time for writing. The time to create this blog.
So let this be the year we shake off the numbness, the apathy, the dust that coats our glasses, and embrace what makes us feel fully alive. To bathe in the small revelries which wake us up and send a shock to our system. A blast of cold wind, our hands in the snow, the caress of a lover, the feel of soil or sand between our fingers, absorbing a ray of sunlight, even the brace of a cold shower. The magic is always there, but it’s up to us to notice.
Just one small jolt a day. Will I choose to find the time? Will you? For the sake of ourselves and the world around us, I hope and must believe we can.
A Mermaid Out of Water 