There's a spot on the Poudre River where a tree has fallen across the water. Where it sounds like a babbling brook regardless of the rate of flow. Where the banks are so sandy, a child can play for hours making pretend cakes dug out with broken sticks and decorated with twigs.
A spot where the trees cast a welcome shade in the summer. And moss grows on the opposite banks unencumbered. A spot that welcomes me like a loving puppy, accepting of whatever burdens I want to deposit there for the water to carry away.
Over the last year, I've watched as first the branches were snapped off the fallen tree. And then the bark, washed downstream leaving a smooth and tan trunk under the current that lapses over the tree like a miniature waterfall. I've watched as icicles have formed from the tree, a thin yet glistening reminder of the changing seasons gracefully hanging down like ornaments.
I like to go there to listen, to watch, to pause, to be. To be in nature. To be present. To be grounded. To be reminded of both the impermanence and the resilience of life.
The tree doesn't ask - why did I have to fall, then continually be pummeled by the water. But I've been asking that of life - why must one hardship occur when others aren't even memories yet?
I used to look forward to the New Year. To the promise of releasing the old and embracing a fresh start, like the passing of time was the wave of a magical wand.
But such anticipation, when unmet time and time again has begged me to find beauty in the shadows. To stop waiting for some arbitrary sign of "things getting better" and instead to embrace that the universe is offering me many chances to learn to do hard better.
Which means, to embrace discomfort as a sign of growth instead of worrying about feeling anxious. To accept, with unattachment, the things beyond my control so I may find peace amongst the chaos. To make intentional choices about what is within my control so I'm not a victim to my own bad habits. To invite joy into my day despite the unrelenting current of life lapsing around me. To release unrealistic expectations I've carried closely with me like Linus' blanket, trading them in for grounded, tangible and adaptable plans. And to conjure up compassion as a full body experience.
Like the fallen tree, I too have shed things I no longer need. Such as my propensity for worst case scenario planning to "always be prepared." Or my inclination to trust my first, and extremely negative, thought that bursts forth when the buzz and heaviness of anxiety riddles my chest.
Despite my studious planning, I don't know what the year ahead will hold. But I know that I can go down to the river, to the spot with the fallen tree. I can sit in the sand, listen to the water, watch the changing landscape and find not only contentment but a wonder and awe that'll fuel me to adapt to whatever comes to pass while staying true to me.
As we welcome in the New Year, we must prioritize refueling our inner reserves so we may adapt in alignment with our values! What will fuel you for 2025?
Want to be more fulfilled, joyful, aligned, purposeful, connected and happy in 2025? Join me at the 2025 Annual Planning workshop - receive guidance to craft a plan to thrive in a supportive community. More information and registration is available online.
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