This morning I woke up feeling like I’m stuck in the movie, Groundhog Day, repeating the same routines over and over again. I fed the cats, cleaned their litter boxes, refreshed their water, then went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
Still in process and doing my best to make sense out of a senseless event, I’ve been sitting with the inner storm and its aftermath. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired. Exhausted, actually. And fed up.
I woke just after 7am today to watch the sunrise, a wash of fiery red and orange fading to soft pinks and peaches on her ascent. I’ve grown to appreciate these daily rituals for the reliability and grounding they offer during unsteady times.
Well, winter has finally arrived here in our neck of the woods. Yesterday we had our first Nor’easter, and while the prediction was a foot of snow, we ended up with a couple of inches and I’m happy to enjoy that as a starter.
There’s a memory I hang onto when times are hard and I find it difficult to feel grateful. I’m 24 years old standing in a bathroom no bigger than a linen closet, staring at my bloodshot eyes in a mirror.
As Beth and I trudged up slippery hills and plodded through leaf-lined puddles, we talked about our day, our election jitters, and how good it felt to be outside. Time in nature has been my saving grace throughout the pandemic – a daily ritual I rely on to keep me healthy, strong, and sane.