staying warm

I was walking outside, on a sunny Sunday, the first of the year and at the cusp of the coming week of usual work. Like everyone else, I was all tucked and fleeced in winter layers, trying my best not to expose any bare part of me to the sharp chill air. I walked slower than usual. I was distracted. I was consciously keeping my feelings in check, feelings about the return to the rat-race tomorrow. For every outburst of worry that shot out from the dark pit of my soul: I reached for it, caught it, and carefully wrapped it in a warm bundle of optimism for the new year.

I passed some stoic parents, orbited by little packages of scarves, wool and legs. They had a far-away look in their eyes. It reminds me of that scene from western movies, you know, where the leading man, riding his trusty steed, trods away from the town he calls home. And against the backdrop of the setting sun, he turns for a last glance back. There was no worry in those eyes, and it wasn't sadness either that tinged that scene.

I think, it was the beginning of resolve that dawned upon people crossing over a threshold in their lives--one of many, probably. You see, the young are lucky since they haven't gone through enough of life yet to know how important it all is; the old are equally lucky since they've already gone through enough of life to know how pointless it all is. For the unlucky few caught in the middle, we venture forward and against the harsh, ever-present, winds of change. In our journey, we shed our innocence, our naivete, our youth, and fashion for ourselves a sturdy mantle woven from the advice of friends, the follies of yesterdays, and the keen wisdom born from a kind heart.

On this new year, instead of preparing resolutions that dwell on goals about work, love, or health, I would instead like to make a resolution regarding my temperament: that whatever this new year may bring, wherever it will take me, may I face it all with grace and sensibility. Let this single thought blanket the rest of the year.

And in that manner, we shambled, the crowd and I, in comfortable shrouds of our own making.

Photo credit: Wool Scarves by beth mercer