2010: the year of openness

Often, as one year wraps up and another unfolds, I find it useful to reflect on the year. This year, I'm journaling with a community called reverb10. Some of these reflections I will post here.

One Word. Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you? (Author: Gwen Bell)

I can imagine my life as a house. Classic, refined, impeccably decorated with a mix of vintage and modern, with shelves and shelves of books. My house is shielded by trees, so light and wind are filtered. Neighbors and children rarely visit; the sounds within are muted, controlled. My house is often wrapped tight, curtains drawn, windows closed.

But this year, I have opened the door, torn down the screen, pulled back thick curtains and allowed winds to blow through my carefully arranged house. Even when the skies darkened and the clean air turned wet and angry, I held open the door.

Winds blew into the dusty corners of the living room, kicking up dust shapes that beckoned to me with glittering tendrils. You have choices, you know, they say. Don’t be afraid, they whisper. The winds have been brazen, kicking statues to the ground and watching them shatter, rifling through book pages and catching up the pressed flowers, setting a few violets down unharmed on the pages, and dissolving others to dust, sweeping them out the windows. The storm has penetrated every recess of my careful rooms, sweeping out the basement with my embarrassments, blowing open the attic with its disappointed hopes for love.

Out with a job that defined but controlled me. In with time to think. Out with some relationships I had hoped to keep, while others have been returned to me more precious than ever. Open, to a different job, to new friends, to love, to honesty, to faith, to a totally new life, and to what old lives still want to tell me.

Open. This year I’ve been open, like a book, like a room, like a womb. Unknowing, blindly, I have cracked myself wide and allowed wild winds to blow through this careful life, handing me back to myself. I have resisted the urge to cling, forcing my fingers to release, allowing this breath to take and leave as it will.

Next year, my house will be cleaner and less careful. Next year, I want to invite in more strangers, more neighbors, more children. I want light, and I want uncareful sounds, laughter, silliness. I want to welcome joy.