I haven't written anything in this blog for several months.
I have been carried swiftly in the whirlwind of volunteer work, family life, and my own need for healing.
In that healing work, I have found myself settling like nutrient rich sediment to the very bottom of me.
Here in the riverbed, there is such richness. It is not fast, or frenzied, and there is less sparkling and bubbling than at the fast paced surface, but there is a deep, muted beauty here that requires stillness to appreciate.
Like the carp who find their way to the bottom of the frozen lake, I am wintering over in this deep place. I am watching sunsets and slowly pruning houseplants and reading children's books.
I am quenching a thirst that has left me parched.
I am sitting at the fireside and soaking up the words of wise women who remember what the world seems to have long forgotten.
That which is slow, and quiet, and monotonous is what makes all life possible.
The rhythm of dishes and laundry. The labor of carrying wood. The way light catches as water is poured from pitcher to glass. The chopping of onions and the peeling of carrots. The crunching of snow under boots and the gleam in a child's eye when awakening to an overnight snow.
These beauties require dwelling in the deep to grasp their enormity.
Only from this place can I see that these small things are actually the big things.
These small, everyday movements of grace are what make a life.