When I looked at the calendar this morning, I’ll admit it felt like a bit of a shock. “The first Saturday in February? Wait, what?!?”
In these times when the days seem to flow together in our “new” normalcy of isolation, house bound routines, and quietness I can understand the loss of a day or so. There are days that stretch on as you realized you’ve done all your going to do with that last cabinet reorganization, snow cleanup, or pile of books on the table. But weeks?!?
I fully embrace the need to run away from 2020. Even my most optimistic self, finds little to shout about and say, “Look what we did in 2020! Wow!” But what happened to January? I was enjoying the relative quiet after the never ending barrage of “Are you kidding me?” in 2020. I am starting to be very comfortable in living slowly and purposefully, not tied to the caffeinated buzz of a far to noisy worker-bee lifestyle. I like my pajamas and coffee by the fire at 11:30AM if I choose. I don’t want it to go quickly!
It has occurred to me that maybe it’s not so much about running away as running to. Even as the mid winter frost has a firm grip on the landscape, I can sense the quickening in the energy underneath. Things are stirring. Sap is rising. Buds are gathering strength to breathe deep and stretch.
The inner dog has perked up is ears and senses something in air. He whines at the door, ready to bolt outside, to scent, leap, and explore. He’s not worried about what the calendar says. He’s ready to run. And perhaps I think, as I tie the laces of my shoes, so am I.