I've often wondered what it would feel like to live in a snow globe and this morning I found out. I woke up to find the most beautiful scene outside my windows -- the ground and trees frosted in white and the biggest snowflakes I've ever seen gently making their way down from the sky. I will tell you: Life inside the snow globe feels magical. And beyond magical, this scene I woke up to also feels like a gift.
Today marks two years since my Dad passed away. If I tried to explain here all the ways my life has shifted in that time I don't think I could gather the words that would do it justice. Suffice it to say that a lot has changed. I do feel like I've made it through the turbulence, but I don't quite yet feel like I've safely landed the plane -- if that analogy makes sense to you at all. Or to stick with the snow globe analogy: there was a big shake up and the snow hasn't quite fully settled yet.
Before I started this post, I looked back at my journal notes and was shocked to find I haven't written an entry since April 14 of 2023! At that point I was in the midst of a complete white out (nod to the snow theme) with no horizon in sight to ground me. My business had tanked courtesy of the pandemic, my marriage was an inch away from imploding, and thanks to the MAGA insanity, after 27 years Arizona no longer felt like home. I felt directionless, numb, and lost. But the words I wrote to myself in that entry that day were very clear:
let all the questions
rest for a while
in space
they can answer
themselves
I heeded that advice, and gave myself the grace and space to let the questions answer themselves. And so here we are! I'm living in a new state (both literally and figuratively), I'm streamlining my work focus, my marriage is in tact, and I'm making time to fuel my creative muse.
I wish I could also tell you that grace and space was all it took and that today all my questions are answered and I'm confidently striding down my next path with every important relationship in tact and thriving. That is, of course, not the case. Not for lack of effort, but for the reality that so many of us are experiencing our own versions of angst and dispair right now. It makes for difficult converstions. And most often, an avoidance of conversations. Sometimes all I can offer others is that same healing grace and space that pulled me through.
Here is what I do recognize: Life often takes grit and hard work. And in that work, I am only responsible for my mindest and choices, not everyone else's. That is my pathway to peace.
These days, I choose to allocate my efforts in ways I know they will return joy, comfort, and hope. Which interestly enough, is exactly what I'm filled with as I sit here watching these snowflakes drift to the ground -- their gentle dance a reminder of the gifts life can bring when you open your heart to a little magic.
Thanks for the reminder, Dad. I miss you.
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