Gratitude

I was expecting a holiday to my spiritual home at the end of May to throw me a little off course, but I had no idea that I’d be blown sideways and only just be finding my way back onto the writing path some seven months later.  What I don’t know yet, is if this signifies a return to the (let’s face it - not particularly well) beaten track or if our paths are crossing momentarily. But for whilst I am feeling the desire to write, I’m just going with it, no further questions asked.

For the past twelve months I have been following the Celtic Wheel of the Year, from winter solstice to winter solstice – one full trip around the sun – stopping off at regular intervals along the way to catch the sunrise, connect with friends and the seasons, talk to my tree, reflect on the weeks just past and set intentions for the ones about to come.  These celebrations have brought some of my favourite moments of the year and removed the oncoming dread of Hogmanay and the mind games I inevitably play where my list of achievements, or lack thereof, are held up against some mystical ready reckoner of productivity and, because I’m the one doing the scoring, always found wanting.

Thus, it is that this year, my house is full of evergreen foliage as I attempt to ‘bring the outside in’, and with it a glimmer of understanding worthy of my putting pen to paper again, I have to let the outside in.  And, at this point of balance, between the last circumnavigation of the sun and the next, a creeping realisation that I also have to let what’s inside out – the good, the bad, the ugly and, perhaps most importantly, the joy.  All deserve a seat around the fire, and, by observing both the darkness and the light of the solstice there is a chance to move away from the required merriment, so often foisted upon us at this time of year, into a more regenerative space.

There has been much deep learning this year, and whilst I continue the work of going inward and finding a way to release past emotions that no longer serve, I am beginning to gain an understanding of the need to connect the daily moments of joy into a more established gratitude practice, to find what it is that feeds my soul and to sit down to dinner with it often.

And so, in an alternative to the traditional twelve days of Christmas, without the rhyme or the increasing numbers (so really not very like it at all) what gifts can I pull out of the past twelve months?  Those little moments that made my heart sing: a walk with my dogs on a frosty morning; drinking prosecco in the rain; eating breakfast on the moors; trig point joy on my birthday; the first time I agreed to run to watch the sunrise; the sunset, the sea and sky of Scotland; the red kites circling over the round house; esplanades of loveliness and laughter in the valleys; singing on top of a double decker bus; both boys being home for dinner; eating afternoon tea on a different double decker bus; hugging my dad on his 96^th birthday.  But how can I choose those and leave out the absolute ‘yes’ moment of watching my friend’s face light up as she hatched a madcap plan; the path pioneering; the tarot tableau; the game of fantasy ice-cream when there was none to be had; the nudge to get creative and the month of fun that followed; the joy of sitting and singing in circle with friends…

The wheel turns this evening, the nights start getting longer with the return of the sun, and no, my house is nowhere near as tidy as I’d like it to be, and yes, there are things I would dearly like to be different, but in that moment of reflection between what's been and what's to come, my cup it runneth over.