A new year. A new decade. A new chapter. A slight smile develops as I cradle the steaming cup of tea in between my cool hands, briefly close my sleepy eyes, and slowly inhale the comforting aroma. I gently sigh, slowly sip the decadent liquid, and deliberately focus on the beauty in my surroundings. Holiday accents abound – voluminous poinsettias, sparkling ornaments, and an eclectic mix of golden glitter, brilliant crystal, and deep green foliage. The twinkling tree lights, glowing candles, and a crackling fire are the only sources of light illuminating the space. The house is quiet. It’s peaceful. It’s early – so early that the moon is still holding a prominent space in the deep dark sky. The world is still asleep. But for me, sleep has been elusive. Zoe tries to engage me in a game of “tug”, but when I don’t grab onto the toy, she wanders over to the hearth, circles a few times, and settles her fluffy little form on the warm floor. I marvel at her ability to fall asleep anywhere and watch as her breathing becomes slow and rhythmic. I let my thoughts wander to the day ahead, the planned activities, and the things I hope to focus on in the new year. Without warning, an unbearable weight descends upon my chest, a pain that emanates from deep within, and I tearfully remember I’m beginning this new year without my mom.
If I’m honest, much of 2019 is a blur. Many wonderful things took place and many happy memories were created, but it also was the year she died. When that happened, everything began to move in slow motion – for me. The rest of the world continued its rapid pace. Relationships began. Babies were born. Celebrations took place. People were excited, laughing, and enjoying life. I did too, at times, but I also struggled. I worked, took care of my family, and did what was necessary. The mundane activities of daily life continued, but I often wasn’t fully present. Disbelief, tears, and grief persisted. Finding my footing in this new terrain has been a challenge.
Years ago, I began a practice of keeping a gratitude jar. There is nothing special about the jar itself. It’s a simple glass container with an ordinary glass lid in full view on our kitchen counter. It’s nestled between the cookie jar and the toaster – beneath the cupboard that houses the drinking glasses. It’s a prominent place in our kitchen that we see every day. Throughout the year, when something happens for which we are grateful (big or small), it’s written down on a colorful piece of paper that’s folded and placed in the jar. By the end of the year, the jar is filled with colorful pieces of paper. On New Year’s Eve, we open the jar, empty the contents, and read each notation. This is a tremendous opportunity for us to relive the wonderful moments we experienced throughout the year. The unexpected. The blessings in disguise. The grace-filled moments. I turn my head to glance toward the jar and see that it’s filled with colorful pieces of paper. Even in this very difficult year, there was still a great deal for which to be thankful.
I close my eyes and picture my beautiful mom – I see her bright smile and hear her contagious laugh. I snuggle deeper into the sofa and try to find comfort in the coziness of the warm room. I miss her. It’s been nearly six months and I still can’t believe she’s gone. She had a presence about her and a matter-of-fact way of dealing with life. She was able to cut through the excess to get to the heart of things. She also had a mischievous spirit. She was loving, kind, and playful. She spent a lifetime trying to get me to take life a little less seriously. She wanted me to enjoy more “silly” moments. My Type A personality didn’t think that was a possibility. I think differently now.
Zoe makes a little noise and stretches out in front of the fire. I pull up the silky blanket and focus – on my breathing, on my tea, on the dancing flames. I take a few more sips and ponder the meaning of New Year’s Eve. I’m not one who typically makes resolutions for the new year. I believe that change happens when one decides to make a change. When one is ready. That can happen at any time during the year – on any given day. As if on cue, Zoe opens her eyes, looks pointedly in my direction, and tilts her head in a comical manner. I slowly savor the last of my drink, reach for her toy, and announce, “I am going to become more playful.” She springs into action and enthusiastically begins tugging as her tail wags spiritedly. I am quickly reminded that she has more energy at rest than I do when fully charged, so I immediately intensify my grip. Her sole focus is the game we’ve begun. The significance of the moment – the weight of my declaration – seems to be lost on her. I chuckle and shake my head as if to create space for this new way of thinking. Perhaps that’s the essence of playfulness. Living in the moment, being grateful, and taking steps to move forward without always having a concrete plan in place.
Life. Death. Grief. It’s difficult. It’s painful. It’s exhausting. I may not be ready to shout “Happy New Year” tonight, but I will be celebrating the light that inevitably breaks through the darkness. Each colorful piece of paper in my gratitude jar is a reminder – of life, love, and possibility.