While I was sitting on the banks of the Canal, I felt a deep pang of something that reminded me of a show I once watched and wrote about called The Comeback Show. The costar of the show, Rachel Fleishman, reaches a breaking point in her life, where she buries her phone in the woods to both literally and figuratively cut herself off from all that was troubling her.
For the last week, Caterpillars kept showing up in or outside my apartment. This conspicuous sign arrived around the time I got the sense my soul required cocooning. My word of the year, cultivate, had seemingly sent my system into a shocking need for inner cultivation—especially after I fell backward into old habits for comfort and consolation for my painful grief and depression.
In the past, I have had words find me — in a serendipitous manner with a lace of intuition. This year was no exception as my favorite poet and artist, Morgan Harper Nichols, created an Instagram Reel of suggested words for the year. A screenshot determined my word this year, but I am certain it was meant for me (even if it were a millisecond between my word and another.)
I was clouded with so many fearful thoughts of the future, the what-ifs and I can’ts and worry-mixed-with-doubt. It was hard to gain clarity and even find out the truth in God’s sight: what is the best decision and next-right-thing? If only I could see through the fear, I pondered; what would that feel like? A sigh of relief, a breath of fresh air, and peace? Likely all of the above.
During a recent radio interview, resistance came up in response to Matthew 4. I had been grappling with severe resistance to my job that had not only stolen precious energy and robbed me of peace but made it near possible to focus on the positive: that I have a vocation with many wonderful blessings.
While I was sitting on the banks of the Canal, I felt a deep pang of something that reminded me of a show I once watched and wrote about called The Comeback Show. The costar of the show, Rachel Fleishman, reaches a breaking point in her life, where she buries her phone in the woods to both literally and figuratively cut herself off from all that was troubling her.
For the last week, Caterpillars kept showing up in or outside my apartment. This conspicuous sign arrived around the time I got the sense my soul required cocooning. My word of the year, cultivate, had seemingly sent my system into a shocking need for inner cultivation—especially after I fell backward into old habits for comfort and consolation for my painful grief and depression.
In the past, I have had words find me — in a serendipitous manner with a lace of intuition. This year was no exception as my favorite poet and artist, Morgan Harper Nichols, created an Instagram Reel of suggested words for the year. A screenshot determined my word this year, but I am certain it was meant for me (even if it were a millisecond between my word and another.)
