Letter 19
Comes the stillness
Dear Reader,
I smiled below my stocking cap this morning as I walked to a nearby store to buy baking powder. So many indulgences – an autumn walk, an adventure podcast, thoughts of baking in the near future.
It’s funny. A lot of people I know dread the coming of winter. It means early darkness, extra layers, perhaps a few shivers and some frost scraping in the early morning.
Not here. Autumn and teases of winter mean a quiet hope to me. A hope for slower schedules and earlier bedtimes for reading. Cozy blankets, wool socks. The real stuff in the morning, decaf in the afternoon.
It’s the week before Thanksgiving and I am sure your calendar is filling with traditions or plans. If you are in the service industry or another one that thrives on others’ downtime it might mean a busier time for work. A few weeks ago my son announced that he was to write about a significant time in his life, one that had a profound impact. He said he was going to write about living through the pandemic and how it had influenced him. I made a mental note to also explore this subject in another letter, as I have started to look back at my “Corona journal” and the photos I collected over those years. Underneath those words and images was a quiet hope, for sure.
Do you have any uncertainties on your mind? Any decisions or life changes ahead? I feel you. It’s Application Central here. Our son is heading to high school next year and in Kansas City, Missouri this means filling out applications, even for public schools (and the strong emotions I feel about the “options” for high school are best for another conversation). I wrap up nursing school next month and the job hunt has begun. With so much up in the air I cling to the comforts of sunlight sliding off golden leaves strewn about our yard. Is it time to put on pajamas yet? Yes?
My final handful of nursing-school shifts are in the quiet Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, where I have listened for soft rumbling cries and watched blinking monitors. The tiny patients are slowly growing, gaining strength and on schedule, a dry diaper is unfolded, lifting legs that are then tucked into the makeshift womb of the isolette. I am there, standing by, silently rooting for them. So much hope.
I have thought recently of other babies born in the cradle of the world’s most prominent religions trying to grow too. As we enter into the next season I recall the story Western Christians will retell of a little one also trying to survive. No judgement or arrogance. Just humility and peace and a quiet, silent, hope for the world.
Thank you for reading. I send you all the best wishes.
Warmly,
Traci