I spent days thinking about the new year. I made dozens of resolutions, lists and lists, as though a new year will magically make me a different person. More hours in the day. A kitchen that cleans itself. Every year the same. I hover around failure. I stir the soup.
January is all fog. All grey and mist, the clouds dip to the streets, fill up the trees. I wake in the in-between light when sky reflects the snow and one doesn't know if it is day or night.
Abraham went out, not knowing where he was going. (Heb.11:8)
We got a bird feeder for Christmas. Word hadn't spread until yesterday when snow covered the ground, and then the birds came. They came in pairs and dozens, birds and birds and birds. All morning we watched them and looked up their names. Occasionally a swoop of ten or more, then gone. We refill the feeder at noon.
I watch from the sink, the way their color will shock, a sudden red in the fog of white and evergreen.
The world is hard and spent and then there is this life. Wild lurks at our edges.
I know that I will relinquish the lists. The endless self-improvement, the SMART goals and sensible five year plans. Who knows, who knows.
My resolution this year is only to feed what is wild. Only life. Only what is tender or raw or broken or beautiful. To be more alive this year, more human. To feel deeply and believe madly and to not know where I am going. And to pray. To walk in failure and weakness and vulnerability- fog and uncertainty- where the wild red watches.