It was dark in the house, the even breaths of sleep rhythmic in their quiet harmony between all the bedrooms. I awoke before the dawn, eager to start a new week, a new day, back at home, holiday past, into our routine.
The routine is what keeps us, you know, the expectation of the familiar. Backpacks packed, lunches packed, hat, gloves, coat, boots, check it all off. Kids dropped off at their respective schools. The adults off to work.
Except today I began by hiking in nature with a friend and feeling the wind against my face. The sky was layered in white and pink and drops of liquid gold sunshine, reflected on the surface of the lake.
All the leaves were down. The wind moved quickly, or maybe we did. Either way, we felt the morning and the day unfolding and the air around us and we were incredibly alive.
My days are about stringing words together so the right people can hear the right stories. I’ve always immersed in the words. Now, it’s to help organizations reach more people and grow. Sometimes, it’s to empower children with their own confident voices, the knowing that they even have one.
The words matter, you know. How we say them, when we say them, if we say them. In the dark of night, when I ruminate over wasted feelings, it’s the lack of words that makes it swirl even further.
In the brilliance of day, it’s the perfect combination of words that reassures, cements, secures.
We come off a holiday weekend when people flung far and wide to reconnect with family and old friends. What happens there?
Some find the old dysfunctional roles of childhood and step right inside, unaware of the ways that the familiar takes over, sometimes to the detriment of the now.
Some create new patterns and new dynamics and rest comfortably there. Still others journey backward to link up with long-ago friends, rekindling the memories as if they are alive today.
On our drive to and from Washington, D.C., we listened to This American Life and The Moth and one segment talked about time travel: did people want to, would they go back in time or ahead, and why did they want to or not?
Ultimately, the story ended with the idea that we have no need for time machines because living every day is a travel through time, 60 minutes at a time, swirling fast ahead with every passing hour. We do it automatically, travel from the past to the future, with every breath.
It’s enough to stop you cold. And enough to prod you on, in exhilaration, to the very next unexpected step.