Last week, I got news I didn't want, news that a hope was in vain, that something I'd been working for and praying for was not to be, not now.
It was a hard week, made harder when my poor dog had to have 13 teeth pulled instead of one, and we didn't know until it was done because of a misread phone number.
This weekend, I was in a tailspin. A conversation with my dad about my future made me cry in a restaurant, and I had a terrible time sleeping. Last night, all I could think of was how a child had slipped away from my group last year at camp, and even though she was found unhurt, and unfrightened, in our own classroom, I was sure that I will never be hired again. Anywhere.
Last night it snowed. Today, the earth and sky are the same color. Today, the kind words of all the parents whose children have honored me with their trust are almost loud enough to drown out my clamoring fears.
I'm trying to envision a new possibility, one I hardly dare to hope for. One where I share with parents and teachers more about how to make storytelling the heart of a life together. One where my family is supported through my employing my true gifts.
The snowfall gives us a fresh start on spring. The thirsty earth has a drink of cold, fluffy, crystal-spun water. Where I am, the flowers are still tucked into their dreaming beds. Maybe this snow can be their awakening.
Typing this now is going to make us late. That's okay. Because this week, I will be gentler. I will trust that things are unfolding as they must. I will cling to stories of phoenixes and ravens, fire and water of life and death. I will walk in the soon-to-melt snow with my still-trusting hound dog, and I will learn from him.
A fresh start on the week, Monday morning. You aren't behind yet. Stop. Look around. Here you are at the beginning. Choose love over fear, delight over dullness, gentleness over regret.
Hi. That's me. I write, sometimes, about parenting, storytelling, and about living a life with stories.