I look outside onto the ice covered streets. I can almost feel the harsh air brushing my cheeks. I feel my feet slip in the snow, and I seek out gentleness.
I turn on the news and I see hatred and violence. I hear all the yelling and pick up on almost zero listening. I see the effects of a broken world screaming forth from my screen, and I long for gentleness.
And I look inside, and I feel the bruises, and I see the tentative scabs barely holding on. I feel the world rushing at me and sense very little within myself to ward it off, and my soul absolutely craves gentleness.
I always approached the world head on. I would leap with abandon, run in with eyes closed, insist on being a part of the fire.
I fought and I protected and I refused to cower in fear.
And now all I want is a cup of chamomile tea, soft lighting, a warm blanket, and some yarn.
I close my eyes, and I dream of soft landings, of open arms, of quiet words. I dream of listening and receiving and banishing the need to the heard.
I can’t create peace, and so instead, I seek gentleness.
Every year, I choose a word to guide me. A mantra of sorts. Something to direct me when I feel directionless.
And for 2016, I choose gentleness. Both toward myself and toward the world. Because when we don’t know exactly where to turn, gentleness usually won’t guide us astray.