Today, the snow settled softly on the barren branches of our tree-lined street. I will probably never have words to describe the stark beauty of the landscape in winter, with the sky fading from rosy pink to pale gold to a deep sullen gray. The black branches of the bare trees shoot upward into that pastel colored sky, creating harsh contrast. It is already winter where I live, and it brought with it the kind of cold that settles in your bones and requires gallons of strong, hot coffee and layers of fuzzy, soft blankets to eradicate. In winter, everything is so crisp and clear and frightfully hard outside. The view is breathtaking, but so is the bitterly cold air.
Winter feels so... Decisive.
You are either indoors, cozy and warm, or you are out in the elements, exposed and body shaking with cold. One step outside the door and you are slammed in the face with the reality that is Winter. Beautiful, yes. But so severe and unforgiving, too.
I am feeling, in the face of this decisive winter season, plagued by indecision. I am confronted with big choices about the work I will do, the words I want to write, the way I will live and love and parent. I am also challenged by tiny questions like what to have for dinner, whether or not to go to the store, and if I should even attempt to clean those mysterious blue scuff marks off the hardwood floor. I get lost in the space of making lists, brainstorming ideas and looking for solutions and never actually take steps to move forward.
The reality is becoming more and more apparent that the time for wavering in indecision has passed. I am running out of room for uncertainty and hesitation. I feel pulled to put on my coat and hat and gloves and risk stepping out into the cold, with all of its incredible beauty and bleak decisiveness.
One year ago this month, a friend of mine passed away. She was young, a mother to three-year-old twin girls. We thought the days were long, when we sat refilling steaming mugs of strong coffee, watching our little ones play together, bemoaning the trials of potty training and sibling rivalry. We were in the light and warmth of each other's company, unprepared for the bitter cold air about to fill our lungs.
Her passing feels so... Decisive.
Her bright spirit was here, and then in a moment, her light and warmth were gone from this earth. My heart aches, exposed to bitter cold, knowing that her babies don't hear her resonant, earthy voice singing to them every day. My body shivers and gets stuck, frozen in place, wondering how it can be possible that such a beautiful, generous, welcoming person has left such a cold and gaping hole.
Losing my friend so young and so suddenly makes me think more fully about the work I will do, the words I want to write, the way I will live and love and parent. Her absence, while it produces a harsh ache, simultaneously exposes me to the beauty still around me. It reminds me to be unutterably grateful for the blessed opportunity to wake up in the morning and choose what to feed my family for dinner, make that necessary trip to the store, and stare lazily at those mysterious blue scuff marks still covering the hardwood floor.
I have grown tired of my own hesitation. I want to embrace the decisions I make, to know that I am living the life I am choosing. This life is full of work and preparation and mundane daily tasks and infinite failures but each of them always begin with my choice. My decision.
My heart feels so... Decisive.
I feel like I am finally ready to live with boldness. To stop wavering back and forth, caught in the web of my own inability to choose, and to be bold in ways I have not felt bold before.
My friend was bold. She was daring; some might have called her audacious. She made gutsy choices throughout her life and she owned her decisions as well as their consequences. Living boldly sometimes produced seasons in her life that were harsh and cold and severe. But looking back at the whole landscape of her life, all the people she loved and those who loved her, all the lives she impacted and changed, I believe it is easy to see that living boldly produced a life that was in all seasons incredibly beautiful.
Bold is not going to come easily to me; I doubt it comes easily for anyone. Stepping into boldness feels like stepping outside into cold winter air. It is beautiful and courageous, a sparkling cold adventure, but it can be hard and bitter, too. Just sharing the proclamation that this season will be one of boldness for me is like posting an icy prediction of my own failure. Deciding to be bold presents a danger all its own.
But there it is... I have already decided. I feel like I could waver more, continuing to consider how challenging bold will be. I could write about how scared I am or what it means or the ways I will need to prepare myself and bundle up against the cold. But it is already winter, and I haven't got the time.