Day 1: A best thing

One of the best things about writing is that you can see where you were before. When I look back at where I was last Advent, my first instinct is to cringe.  I’m embarrassed by the melodrama of it all, the sheer pathetic-ness of me. 

But then I stop myself and offer a little grace to me.  It’s not melodrama.  It feels big because it is big.  And it feels even bigger because I didn’t grow up letting myself feel things.

Like Job, I am allowed to feel big.  I wrote how I felt.  I wrote to teach me how to feel.  I am allowed to feel it as long as I need to.  And then I am allowed to feel the next thing.

Sitting on that ash help was important to my healing.  I’m slow to process, so writing helps … even writing on the ash heap.  I’m quick to forget, so reading what I wrote last year makes me remember that I used to feel that way and that I don’t feel that way right now and that no feeling is forever. 

I wouldn’t say I’ve risen from the ashes, but I think I’ve walked far enough from that heap that the ash is wearing off my soles a bit.  My footprints and my footsteps are lighter. 

So this Advent-ure will be different than last year’s. I’m not on that same heap anymore, and I don’t have as much time for all of that scab-picking.  This years’ thoughts will be shorter and pithier.  Maybe these will be things I might delve into more when my internal timing points that way.  Maybe one or two of these will be things you’d want to think about, too.  Maybe not. 

Let’s just see, shall we?