January

It is January and the days are long with darkness. I’ve made promises to myself that I aim to keep. Aiming implies direction, forward momentum, some target in mind. It is January, the waning days of the year of the snake; my skin loose from change but not altogether replaced. Having survived so many liberations already, I know there’s more unfoldment ahead but its texture and weave are still unknown. Just because you don’t know now doesn’t mean you won’t know at some point, I remind myself.

I count on my fingers all the times the ground has opened up before me, swallowing whole what I thought it meant to be alive. In the wake I emerge, tacitly understanding that some evolutions look a lot like loss. It is January and I am a wise beginner. I have been here before. I have been cowardly and courageous. I have been lost and found. It is January and the trees sleep easily in preparation. The birds hum along the skyline performing a migration as fundamental as breathing. The ground waits for warmth without worry. I am a wise beginner.

I see the constant cycle of death and rebirth all around me. Nature has no concept of waste. I waste away in doubt no longer. I promised myself presence over pressure. The pressure to know, to perform, to label. I promised myself trust over fear. There is no war inside me. I am the one who is free.

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