Change is hard--there's a deep thought for you, petals. And I'm with you--I'm 100% happy (okay...92.2% happy) keeping to my routine, changing nothing. But the hard truth is, if we don't change, if we don't sit and breathe through the discomfort of transition, then we'll never experience the beautiful expansion, the broader worldview that acres and acres of new space provides.
We move or we die--that's a brutal truth, but it's also a marvelous opportunity. If it helps, change is inevitable--it's out of our hands. It's one of the (many, many) things over which we have no control--and there's a lovely freedom in that. Embrace it, trudge through it, but no matter how you approach change, be grateful for it--it proves you're still alive, still sparking enough to generate your own heat, your own evolution.
I think it's a matter of not trying so hard and allowing the little things to surprise us. Rather than glossing over them, it's about waiting and holding them, testing their weight and finding delight in our ability to still, after all this time, find joy in the small things, the mundane things, the things that stay the same, and the things that live with constant change.
We think we see the same world day after day, but how can that be true? Perhaps it can be today's joyful task to hunt out the changes--the color of the leaves, the scent and direction of the wind--and find gratitude both for the change and for our ability, still, to notice.
There is little more therapeutic than sitting outside at dawn at this time of year with the mad, competitive chaos of the dawn chorus followed by, on a clear day, the controlled riot of sunrise. You don't even need to try not to think, so overwhelming is the joyful chatter of sound and color, and so short-lived is the show, that you're up and on with your day before long. But what a day that will be, begun in the cleansing, wild meditation of a June morning.
This is why I love the sunrise--I need the reminder to be present. I need the reminder that this achingly beautiful event happens again and again, every day, without fail. It's effortless, and it reminds me that I really needn't try so very hard.
Now is the time to invite in magic. The spring equinox, for me, is the true new year--and after this particularly long winter, I say we write our own rules. I say we dictate what can and cannot be our reality. I'm sick to death of fear and of cowering before each day, before it's even begun.
When did we get to be so frightened? When did we decide that we weren't made for a happy life? I don't know, but I'm worn to the bone, and I could use a new year and a little magic.
I know the winter is long, and the cold is deep and unrelenting. And, yes, the struggle to see the light at the end of this long season is weighing us down. But I think there's something else at play here, too. Winter reminds us of how little control we really have and of how long transitions take. We're laser-focused on one goal (spring), and when we're that focused, time moves at its own pace (i.e. wicked slow).
But winter is an opportunity, not for distraction, because that's not necessarily a good habit to fall into either, but for absorption. If we constantly focus on the one thing we can't have (yet), then we drive ourselves, and everyone in our orbit, to the edge--which isn't far off for any of us this time of year.
So, instead, look up, look out. And by looking out, maybe you'll notice that the birds started calling fifteen minutes earlier this morning than the last time you happened to listen. Maybe you'll notice you opened your curtains a bit earlier this morning and...