Exactly one month ago, I marched out the front door in a bit of a mom-huff, fast-walked to the park, and ended up at the cemetery. I was listening to a podcast, I don’t remember which one, but somehow, longing, desire, exhaustion, and creativity collided in me. After a grueling work season marked by hustle, I felt a tiny part of my truest soul come back to life, even as the leaves collapsed and death surrounded me.
Is it okay to talk about resurrection in November?
It is okay to write about wanting in the thick of Thanksgiving?
I sat at the base of this tree, sharing cozy October air with its branches, and typed out a list of things I wanted. It came in a rush. Fragments, half-thoughts, punctuation sometimes. I did not allow myself to overthink. Even now, as I bare my soul to you, I vow the same. Some of it might be weird. (I honestly don’t remember at this point, but I’m about to re-read it along with you. Wheee!) It was honest me, in an honest moment. It felt so good to say the things out loud, claiming myself, remembering I’m a whole, complicated person. I am whimsical and serious. Angry and tender. Frivolous and over-thinking.
We’re nestled here in this familiar pause. There will soon be celebration. Festivity. Gratitude. Then, we’ll declutter, make promises to ourselves, start something new.
Before that, might I suggest jotting down an “I want” list of your own? Write until your words run dry. Let it be lusty, so to speak. This isn’t the place for good manners or small desires. It isn’t meant to be a list of goals, necessarily. I have no reason to believe these things are in my future, or even that they should be. But I will say this…since writing my list, I’ve been warmed by a new flicker of compassion for myself, my time, my wildest wishings.