It is 8 a.m. Every once in a while, the wind blows a puff of snow off the shed out back. It is beautiful, like everything else outside after 8+ inches of snow.
It's clean and white. Like a new calendar. Fresh with possibility.
It makes us hopeful that we can be that new person this year - do whatever it is we've been meaning to do forever - on the way to becoming a better, more ideal version of ourselves.
Then February comes and the snow melts and we are left with the eternal disappointment: Our mid-winter world is brown and gray again. Dead, like the resolutions we made during the snowstorm.
You can give up on becoming that better version of yourself. Or you can make small, incremental changes without any fanfare at all, the types of changes that no one really notices, until voila, there you are. Maybe not the best, most fantastical version of yourself (the one who runs marathons and teaches yoga while working 50 hours a week and volunteering at the local food pantry/dog rescue every weekend) but a better version.
A version of yourself that is a little more comfortable in her own skin. A version of yourself that admires the snowfall, but also appreciates all the work that still needs to be done once everything white and beautiful and temporary melts away.
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I am listening to: A quiet house
I am reading: Servants - A Downstairs History of Britain from the Nineteenth Century to Modern Times
And I am: Being realistic
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