As the morning lightens and snow falls softly onto the freshly dusted pine branches outside my study window, I am at peace. For weeks I have been writing down my words, sharing my thoughts, pondering the past year: and today I feel free.
Part of me feels a wee bit embarrassed (and vulnerable) whene’er I choose to share too deeply; but I do so because that is how I process pain: I think things through by putting them on paper. This clarifies my thoughts, lets the mud settle in the riverbed, clears the waters.
There is a gentle joy in telling the truth: saying to loved ones who ask how I am, ask if this new year has been happy so far: “No, I have not been ‘happy’ in recent days—but it is well with my soul.” And knowing that is true.
Another part of me knows that while my journey is unique, as is the journey of each reader, we all share the same basic human need to be loved, heard, cherished. Seen.
Even as I share my small wounds (tiny in the big scheme), I am more aware of the wounded places in others; I am learning to listen more as I speak less; I am willing to walk beside others who are hurting and cannot find words to say what’s wrong; and I am finding some of my compassion returning as the cynical shell around my heart gets chipped away. By love, care, and the healing touch of true friends, week after week, year after year.
On this Friday in wintry Alberta my heart is strangely warmed.