Well here we are. Roughly twenty-two hours into this new year.
Like many, I would imagine, I annually wonder what's ahead for the next twelve months. This year though, there seems to be a greater foreboding about our country and life in general than in the previous years. Yet, with humanity-turned-upside-down due to Covid, mask-wearing, lockdowns or lockouts, and the simple fact that the world I find myself living in bears little if any resemblance to the world in which I grew up, I find that my greatest hopes and desires for the new year are for peace.
Peace in my relationships, and in particular with my elderly dad, for whom I am the only family member within arm's reach. Though I am not his caregiver per se, I keep a watchful eye on him and his needs, and I often find this to be a heavier emotional weight than was the rearing our children. He will soon turn 88. My mother, his wife of just shy of 64 years, died more than a year and a half ago. As the only daughter in a family of 5 children, I have assumed the burden of looking after Daddy in the absence of my mom. Thankfully, that does not include him living with us.
Peace in my work as a teacher. I have spent over twenty years in physical classrooms, and one year--last year--teaching online. Last year showed me how fulfilling teaching could be. I have certainly had precious moments over the years, and developed wonderful relationships with many of my students, but last year I worked harder and longer hours than ever before, while building deep and caring relationships with students, their parents, and the most extraordinary colleagues imaginable. In the words of one of my fellow online teachers last year, this really was my "unicorn job". The one most people only hope for but don't genuinely believe they can have. Peace in this arena for me will mean returning to that school. It will be the last professional move of my career, and I am pursuing it as if my well-being and sanity depend upon it.
Without question, my greatest quest for peace is with my body. It has felt like my nemesis for the majority of my life. Tempting, taunting, and seducing me with with food the way booze calls the name of the alcoholic every waking moment. Four years ago I found a program that worked beautifully for me for months. I dropped seventy pounds as a post-menopausal woman nearing the end of her sixth decade. I felt amazing. Free. Hopeful. Alive! So what happened? I fell off the wagon. Little by little old habits showed up and asked me to dance. They reminded me that food had always been there for me when I was sad or lonely or frightened or depressed. Food was for celebrating or numbing, but rarely for nourishing.
I began writing this blog years ago as a means of accountability around my eating, in the ever-present hope of losing weight. A dear old well-meaning friend gently chastised me, reminding me that there is more to me than this one issue. And I let his words burrow under my skin. I continued to write, but tried to broaden my subject matter. The problem with that was it blurred my focus. That focus which was the whole reason I was writing to begin with. This blog had been a source of bargain-basement therapy. But that changed.
So, here I am. Back again. Writing here for me and not to please anyone else. To create and clarify renewed focus for taking back my life. I don't know if anyone will ever read my words, or if they are only for me. It doesn't matter. Today is my new starting line. And here is where I will chronicle my race. By the grace of God I will be back tomorrow with more thoughts. More reflections. More determination.
Peace . . .
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