We got the bikes out today. It was time. I struggled with the tire stems, and hooked up the amazing electric pump my wife got me last fall. My son has outgrown the bike we got him just a year and half ago. He is growing so fast, I can't keep up. My feet fit into the new rainboots I bought him.
Muddy snowmelt splashed up from the streets onto the back of his pants and his jacket, even up to his helmet. He strove to master the hand brakes and gear shifts, such a step up from his combination hand-and-coaster break fixed gear bike last year.
Today, I struggled to say yes, and was glad I did. I said yes to taking a walk with my tutoring student, instead of sitting down to our books at the start of our lesson. I said yes to getting on my bike and going around the block three times. I said yes to a board game after our bike ride. I said yes to spending the morning puttering and storing up ideas, instead of forcing this blog post to get written then. But saying yes is hard for me. It's easier to say no, to retreat into busy housework and hiding behind my screen.
I'm going to step back from social media for a time, to focus on being present for springtime. The snow is melting rapidly. My child is growing. My wife is eager to share news from her day, and to dream about our garden. We have a vacation coming up, and the last few months with our wonderful school before we start our homeschooling adventure. I want to invite you into my courses and coaching practice, and to share from my heart, and that requires attention.
I'm afraid to do this. I'm afraid I will miss important news. I am afraid I will be all alone. I'm afraid no one will ever know what I have to share with the world, and this work will go undone. But you have found me, here. I can keep working and sharing, sending my newsletters. I can write letters and send texts and call people on the phone.
And I can always go back. I probably will. I just need to re-learn how to breathe and move like the wind on my bike, like I did at 7 and 17. I need to re-learn how to pour our my thoughts on paper, and how to stop spinning from activity to activity, and to be here.
Spring is coming. It's nearly here. I can feel the melting of the frost under the earth, the stirring of the sap in the trees, the exploratory stretching of daffodil bulbs. I don't want to miss it.
First, the dog died. It was horrible and sad, and there is no way I can write about how I am without telling you that. We made the awful decision to euthanize our 13 year old, much-beloved hound; he was just fine, and then suddenly was emphatically not. Torsion, twisted gut, or bloat, all terrible names for a terrible condition. It comes on suddenly, without warning, and even if we had the money for the surgery, there was no guarantee of full recovery, or that it wouldn't happen again.
It was Valentines day.
And then I got sick. I am still battling a lingering sinus infection. It makes my face hurt, and it makes me so tired.
And the snow. Oh, heavens, the snow. It just kept coming. And coming. It came again yesterday. More snow than in any other February since they started keeping track. It's magical and beautiful, and messy and awful.
So, there's all of that. So much going on. So much feeling so heavy and hard to deal with. And my friends are going through heavy and hard things, too.
What can we do? What do we do when we are stuck in the swamp and lost in the woods and at the bottom of the well?
Well, we fall asleep. We lose our senses and fall asleep. It feels like we can't think right, that it's hard to just get through the day. So we sleepwalk through it, do the minimum...
Until we come to our senses on the bank of a stream, or find our way through the woods to the house with the fence topped with skulls...
Fairy tales tell us what to do. We must turn away from ourselves (what?!? the opposite of self care?? Isn't that codependent? hear me out...) we turn our attention outward, because inwardly, we are lost. We are in pain and stuck, frightened and dulled by grief, sick and tired. So we look out into the world, and we do what we can do.
We do what we can to. Tiny things. We do what we can to ease the suffering of the world, and find our own hearts beginning to heal.
The girl who has fallen down the well shakes the apple trees crying for help. The girl who has been sent to Baba Yaga ties the tree branches with her own ribbon, and gives her bread to the dog. The tired, sad woman sends a text to a friend in mourning and says, "Hey, I'm thinking about you."
A world with more kindness in it feels easier to bear. A world with more gentleness and sharing of burdens feels brighter.
Every personality test I've taken, lists me as a teacher, helper, and nurturer. It's how I am in the world. Maybe you aren't -- you're an artist, philosopher, rebel, leader, systematizer, organizer, investigator.... You know what kinds of contributions light you up. You know what kinds of reaching out, what kindnesses, what gestures are your gift to the world. So do that, even just a tiny bit. Make a little picture and set it where it will be seen. Organize the supply closet. Tell your employees where they're excelling. Write to the lawmaker you support. Find a solution to a tiny problem. Do your thing.
The world will feel less dark. The ice will melt. Your broken heart might still be broken, but some light might start to shine through the cracks.
When you are sick of winter, or just sick, just start. One tiny thing to make things better, and it will heal -- you and the world.
Sara Renee Logan has been telling stories to everyone who would listen since she was seven. She organized storytimes for her college roommates, and spent a year at Oxford studying folklore and folktales. Many years as a Waldorf teacher allowed her to tell stories about everything from Baba Yaga's hut on chicken legs to the water cycle to the life of Joan of Arc. Sara shares her life with her partner, Melanie, their son, and an unreasonable family of pets. She continues to share her love of storytelling and stories with audiences of all ages, specializing in bringing the wild beauty of folktales to young and old. Sara writes about parenting, storytelling, and about living a life with stories.