My January has been pretty quiet. How can I not appreciate having the time to nestle up w/ the kids on the couch, each absorbed in a book? I have had time to organize and write and stretch and cook. What a gift.
And yet I notice a hollow space in me that feels echo-y and brittle. I suspect it is a part of myself that yearns for connection. Moving to a new place when you don’t have toddlers to help you meet people at the playground or the library has been challenging. It’s been 18 months since I lived in a community surrounded by good friends and feeling really plugged in.
I have made a few friends in that time, met many new acquaintances - lots of really nice people, in fact. What’s been missing, though, is that level of depth and richness in relationship that is forged over time or over intense creative collaboration. I get little tastes of it w/ friends over Zoom now and then, but it isn’t the same as being in the same physical space.
While I don’t regret the choices we’ve made in the past two years; I can see the down side, in terms of my value of deep connection.
The image that keeps flashing through my mind’s eye is that of the cold, winter landscape I drove through this morning. Frozen winter fields covered in frozen dew. The bare trees looking frozen in time. There’s a part of me that feels frost-covered and barren.
On my drive, the sun quietly pushed itself up past the hills in the east and spread its light across the fields and swaths of trees. And in that indistinguishable moment, the fields began to wink and sparkle, and the trees glinted like glass.
My breath caught at the beauty, and even the surly thirteen year old in the passenger’s seat let out an appreciative, “Wow.”
I am struck in this moment, thinking about the frost-laden parts of myself. Perhaps there is beauty to be found in the stark landscape, a glinting beauty that comes w/ the right angle of the sun.
Perhaps I haven’t quite found the right angle yet. I may need to shift ever so slightly. I may need simply to be patient.
Coming to mind is a poem by David Whyte called The Winter of Listening. These lines in particular:
And yet I notice a hollow space in me that feels echo-y and brittle. I suspect it is a part of myself that yearns for connection. Moving to a new place when you don’t have toddlers to help you meet people at the playground or the library has been challenging. It’s been 18 months since I lived in a community surrounded by good friends and feeling really plugged in.
I have made a few friends in that time, met many new acquaintances - lots of really nice people, in fact. What’s been missing, though, is that level of depth and richness in relationship that is forged over time or over intense creative collaboration. I get little tastes of it w/ friends over Zoom now and then, but it isn’t the same as being in the same physical space.
While I don’t regret the choices we’ve made in the past two years; I can see the down side, in terms of my value of deep connection.
The image that keeps flashing through my mind’s eye is that of the cold, winter landscape I drove through this morning. Frozen winter fields covered in frozen dew. The bare trees looking frozen in time. There’s a part of me that feels frost-covered and barren.
On my drive, the sun quietly pushed itself up past the hills in the east and spread its light across the fields and swaths of trees. And in that indistinguishable moment, the fields began to wink and sparkle, and the trees glinted like glass.
My breath caught at the beauty, and even the surly thirteen year old in the passenger’s seat let out an appreciative, “Wow.”
I am struck in this moment, thinking about the frost-laden parts of myself. Perhaps there is beauty to be found in the stark landscape, a glinting beauty that comes w/ the right angle of the sun.
Perhaps I haven’t quite found the right angle yet. I may need to shift ever so slightly. I may need simply to be patient.
Coming to mind is a poem by David Whyte called The Winter of Listening. These lines in particular:
| ...the slow difficulty of remembering how everything is born from an opposite and miraculous otherness. |
The whole poem is worth a read - a good, going inward, wintertime poem.
Winter requires patience. Even in their icebound state, I know there is life coursing through those trees.
The life coursing through me, that bumps up against this icy place, is not diminished.
I wonder if, in fact, it is enriched, suffused with the magic of winter.
What does your own winter landscape feel like? What is it calling you towards?
Winter requires patience. Even in their icebound state, I know there is life coursing through those trees.
The life coursing through me, that bumps up against this icy place, is not diminished.
I wonder if, in fact, it is enriched, suffused with the magic of winter.
What does your own winter landscape feel like? What is it calling you towards?
 | Jessica Curtis is a professional coach who helps people cultivate intention and live from a place of meaning and authenticity. If you think you could benefit from working with Jessica or want to invite her to work with your group, reach out to start a conversation. |
Sign-up to receive my newsletter and blog to your Inbox:
RSS Feed
