|This week's word: Tired|
With the changing of the seasons, I have felt a kinship with the barren mother of fall.
She is bending, heavy with the knowledge of her fruit unused, foliage one sought after for shade and delight, now hang from her clenched fists by a thread.
So much death is on her breath; so much weary weight is placed on her, this broken Eve, who once was alive with possibilities, now groans under the weight of the present.
And here, my soul felt at home. I was tired. Tired of carrying the burden for things that were once ripe, and now seeding on the ground… untouched, unwanted.
When I woke this morning, I feel the dawn air pregnant with the promise of snow, and of the promise of re-birth.
The chill that will kill what is left of the old.
The weight of the packed landscape that will force brokenness and endurance.
The freedom of a snowflake changing directions in its dance with the wind.
I will unburden myself of the past, my expectations will lay on the trees bare branches that will soon be covered with a blanket of redemption.
I will wait for the breathless release of rest as the snow slowly covers me.