There’s something about winter that encourages vulnerability.
Maybe it’s the constant layering and unlayering of clothes that gives you practice opening up.
Or the realization that while your body is frozen your heart still longs and hopes and loves and that these things somehow are just as true as your fingers and toes and ears.
Or maybe it’s simply the need to fill the silence that the bugs and birds once filled.
I’m not sure what it is. But on a walk on a cold night, I swear I could heat every home with the fire of my honesty, conduct choirs of singing spirits and lights with the truth pouring out my hands.
And yet, despite the weather, being vulnerable is still hard for me.
Is it hard for you? Do you think maybe it’s supposed to be hard?
Maybe it’s good to be known, but by safe people.
To be consumed by love, but gently.
To be real and true and honest, but in a way that makes peace.
I don’t know.
I do know I went for a walk tonight. It was a brisk 20 degrees. Afterwards, I put on some tea, because there’s something about tea that encourages vulnerability.
Maybe it’s the way the leaves unfurl. Or how the mug was earth before it was formed. Or maybe it’s something else. I don’t know.
In the kitchen, I can hear the water starting to sing.
Drink me up!
Drink me up!
Do it slowly.