And yet, not much has changed on the outside.
Something is stirring however. I sense it. I sense it as magnificently as I feel the down-to-my-bones chill in the air when I run. As potent and home-spun as the smell of cow pasture on my way to the lake. I know it like I know the look of “I’m sorry” in my husband’s eyes without him ever saying a word.
Like the rest of us, my little blog has been quarantining, too. Hiding away, trying to decide when it’s safe to come out again to play. Truthfully, it’s forgotten how to play altogether. It can’t remember its song–not the notes or the melody, and especially not the words. It forgot what story it’s supposed to be telling; rehearsing over and over in a symphony of ways. Most sad of all, it forgot it belongs to something greater than itself. It forgot that it’s part of a community—a tiny little gathering of fellow wanderers, not necessarily lost, but rather wandering in community together.
No more. I may have to settle for being Cinderella trying to get to the royal ball, thwarted at every turn by my evil, 2020 pandemic step-mother and sisters.
But not my blog. My blog isn’t constrained by COVID-laws or COVID-life. It could already be there. It could be basking in the beauty, swelling with delight.
This is what I want my 2021 to be marked by. Delight is what I will practice. Don’t ask me what that looks like yet. Stick around. We’ll find out together.