What a murky two months.
I'm officially here to wish you all the best for the coming year - I'm unofficially here to see if I'm alone in this strange liminal space between hope and hopelessness. Does this feel like twilight to you?
Expectation? Nothing so certain.
A possible dare to dream? The faintest whisper in the deepest corner of thought that perhaps the pandemic will run it's course this year and we - and by "we" I mean "I" - can reemerge from my emotional bomb shelter to see what's left of my world.
As though we're (there they're I go again, I mean "I'm") on the cusp of New, but it's an empty newness. New of the type that means nothing old is left. That type of New that waits, being nothing more than motes of dust awaiting the breath of creation, doing nothing more than waiting.
This almost feels like Imbolc. The crisp cold snow giving way to sprouting snowdrops in the earliest winter thaw. Or Candlemas. A festival of light and hope as the earth begins its slow return from deepest sleep.
Almost Imbolc. Almost Candlemas. I'll have lots to reflect on in the next month while I'm waiting for those festivals to roll around.
I truly do wish you the best. I wish for you the ability to step into this new year without expectations. Without goals. But with watchful eye and bated breath, I wish that you would find yourself waiting excitedly for your turn to add your own values and opinion and desire and hope to whatever life will bring you. A chance for you to begin to mould your new into something satisfying.