The Rooms We Live In
This winter solstice, I got to burn some things. I do this every year on my own. But this year, at a holiday party, I stood outside with friends around a fire and burned my letting go list—a list of things, circumstances, people, feelings, or regrets I want to let go of in the next year. On the longest night of the year, instead of hunkering down, I was releasing, making myself more bouyant, lighter. Instead of closing in, I’m trying to expand.
The last few years have been strange for me, and nearly everyone around me. Big changes, tragedies, the current political landscape, disappointment, even despair have crept into the small rooms of my life and the lives of those I love, making it clear that they have every intention of overstaying their welcome. They live next door to unspoken hope, to love and joy, and gratitude for the many, many blessings my life offers. It’s a weird bunch of neighbors, y’all.
I have spent a lot of time with those welcome and unwelcome guests, unravelling my own feelings of life and purpose and calling, trying to be a good friend when I don’t have answers. Trying to be a person who shows up in her life. Who greets the feelings that are making a home in me, to see and name and acknowledge my needs, even if they frighten me. Even if it means naming that a need is unmet, and might remain so. I’m not great at unresolved questions, so sitting with those feelings is a practice in expanding the threshold of what I feel capable of. May this be the year of opening the door. Of tending and caring for the rooms we live in. Of greeting what comes.