Things Almost Feel the Way They Used To… but Better.
I smell onions frying from inside the house: a sign my family is eating well, and eating what makes them feel safe and loved, at home.
The birds are so happy — flitting, flirting, dancing, and diving. They’re chasing each other across the yard, through the tops of the trees at the back line of the yard.
Things almost feel the way they used to… but better. Matured. And more refined. Like the edges have been polished off of what I was and wanted to be. I sat beneath this very tree, and prayed for the things I have today.
Praise the gods and guardians who have seen me this far along the way. Praise Creation for this expanse of time to breathe in this long-hoped-for reality. A cardinal sits in the branches of the ash, singing to me now at this moment of realization: “There was a time you wished for exactly what you have.”
I never thought I could learn to love myself or trust myself. I didn’t believe I was worthy of love and contentment and a family who felt safe in each other’s company.
We have to make room for the things we want, even if we cannot yet see or imagine what they will be. We trust in the hope that something better is coming. Someday. Soon?
I will keep waiting until I receive what more I know is coming to me. And until then, I will make space for the promise. I will clear cobwebs, sweep floors, and throw out what is broken and weighing me down.
Whose is this?
I don’t know why I still have this.
This makes me sad when I look at it.
This really doesn’t fit.
Put them in a box.
Label it Stuff to Throw Away.
Don’t bother wasting tape. Fold the flaps in on themselves: four quarters of finality.
Don’t let it ride around in your trunk like a good intention.
Drive to the dump, take it to the source.
Feel resolve in your back. Feel it in the middle of your belly, in that divot of softness beneath your sternum.
Feel it cut ties to your heart with a heave and release.
It is not yours to carry anymore.
It is not yours, to take up precious space.
Do you feel that?
Take a breath. Into your belly.
This is letting go.
This turn of the wheel marks another spoke on your timeline.
This is moving on.
If I had known what I would gain from choosing no more of this and I want something better, well, all the time I could’ve saved!
But I am not here to rue the past, I am here to breathe oxygen into this flicker of the future.
I am making more room for That Which Is to Come.
I have more work to do, and I am ready.
This is moving on.
Christine Anderson is a mama, maker, and mystic, writing in Western Wisconsin. Contrary to common belief, she doesn’t have cows in her backyard, but she befriends plenty of squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, and birds who find refuge — and snacks — in the space she has cultivated. When she is not writing, Christine is crafting and creating with her hands: crocheting, baking, drawing, sewing, shuffling tarot cards, or handling herbs. A self-proclaimed word witch, Christine has taken on the task of transmuting human experience into cosmic healing — pulling at collective threads of shadow and shame, and holding them up to the light. You can connect with her via her website and Instagram.