At the end of last winter, I remember going for a walk during the season of Lent, down one of the rural roads near where we live. I walked through the forest—overgrown and tumbling cabin walls marking the remains of long abandoned homesteads. It was bitter cold, and everything was still brown and grey and still. The quiet seemed to be embodied by the trees, who stood as strong grounded sentinels, only their very tops giving in with the slightest movement to the wind. And yet, despite the stillness of the forest, it was as if I could feel the vibration of unseen life below the surface. It was quiet, but not dead. Still, but not inactive. Life coursed through the forest as it readied itself for Spring. 

At the time, I was dealing with a very stressful job. There was so much upheaval that felt very much out of my control in my work. I was drawn in that moment to those trees. Though I could feel the cold wind on my face, I could not see it in the trees without looking up to the topmost branches. They felt grounded and strong and yet very much alive. That was the spirit I wanted to strive for in the chaos of that moment. Not numbness, but rather peace. Not inactivity, but rather quiet internal work, the work that would make a true difference as the world around me changed.

And it dawned on me that this is what the season of Lent can be as well. It is waiting, but also working. Preparing ourselves for the next stage or season, whatever that may look like personally in our lives.

As I contemplate the memory of my intention, I can’t help but reflect on the results of it over the course of that year. I’ve come full circle now, back to another Lent. Was I successful at embodying the quiet dignity of a tree? Some days I think I was. But other days the chaos left me windswept and worried. The stressors in my work ebbed and flowed. Sometimes it felt like things were settling down and then we’d be thrown into a new catastrophe. There were tears and tension and dismay and hopelessness throughout those months. There was also hope and joy and community and wisdom. Sometimes I experienced all of those things in one day. But it wore on me. Eventually I did what the tree cannot do, I picked up my roots and moved away from the chaos. I opened myself up to new opportunities and accepted a new position in a different organization.

I am proud of myself for taking that risk, for prioritizing my mental, physical, and emotional health. Stability is what I felt I had to cling to last year, standing firm in the midst of the chaos. I felt so beaten down over the last year, and there are so many rhythms I created to cope with stress that I’d like to now dismantle. I wanted to write that my intention this year is to focus on growth, because there are so many things I want to grow more into, things that I set aside over the last year due to lack of energy—writing, art, sewing. But then I remembered that the lack of these things in my life over the last year does not automatically equate to a lack of growth. In the last few weeks of the job I left, I did a lot of reflecting on my time there. And I realized that one thing that had happened was that I had grown. I had grown in confidence and ability and even in ambition. It was hard fought and sometimes uncomfortable growth, as growth often is. So perhaps, growth is not quite the word I’m looking for. Perhaps expansion and energy are more fitting. Like a tree in Springtime, when the flowers and leaves burst forth in an outward expression of all that inward preparation, I now want to focus on the outward expressions of my strength and resilience. It is fitting therefore, to post here on this blog which has remained quiet for far too long. May this be the first of many posts this year.