Wintering

           Wintering is a time of waiting.  Waiting to see what survives;  what will thrive from what’s been left behind.  Wintering is a time for discovering the beauty that exists in the quiet, in what remains.  

   I think much of my teenage years and early adult years were spent in a period of waiting.  Working and studying, and waiting for the time when I could do what I really wanted to do.  And, it doesn’t always feel like much has changed.

   The older I get though, the more I seem to question things, question myself, and question my choices.  And instead of taking action, I wait to see how things will play out.  I’m not quite sure that’s such a good thing.  I fear that all my wintering will strip me of who I am, and I’ll lose sight of what I really want.  

   I wait for relationships to heal, for a phone call to end the silence that has stretched between my brother and I for over ten years.  I wait for my sister and I to regain the closeness we shared as little girls who called each other “Best Friends.” 

   I wait to feel pleasure again in my career.  Teaching used to be fun and exhausting, exhilarating and demanding.  And I loved it.  I don’t anymore.  I can’t teach grammar, long division, and California history in the midst of chaos caused by thirty-plus children who need lessons in respect and compassion, manners and tolerance.  

  Sometimes my life feels like a test.  How much can I handle and how well can I handle it?  The answer remains to be seen, and sometimes I feel more up for the challenge than others.

   The pink flowering blooms are blown off a tree on a neighbor’s front yard, but the strong trunk remains.  That tree is grounded, it’s got a solid foundation, and I know I do too.  I’ve got to wait it out.  Take stock of what it is I can change, what I can’t change and will accept as is, and what I can no longer tolerate.

   Winter can be a time of great desolation, sadness, and loneliness.  And that’s okay.  

   But, there’s a flip side.  Wintering is also a time of renewal; a chance to hibernate and recharge.  A chance for me to take stock of my life, to inventory of what I want to keep, what I want to change, and what I need to let go.

   Things I waited for haven’t turned out the way I thought they would.  Teaching was supposed to be the career I’d retire from.  Now, I worry how I’ll make it to June.   My siblings were supposed to be my constant source of comfort not pain.

   In the quiet of this wintering stage, I can pause and reflect on the many blessings that do fill my life (a ten-year-plus friendship with a former co-worker), the happy surprises (discovering my favorite local-vacation spot along California’s central coast), the evolution of my life (I’m a mother).  

   And, life will go on.  Seasons will change.  Bits of me will too.