The world is fluttering around with snowflakes and it finally feels like winter. There is a slow Saturday ahead of us, and we are milking these last days for all they're worth. Two weeks away from adding an unpredictable, flailing, squishy member to our family who will surely disrupt all our plans and ruin every slow Saturday for the next decade. But we are ready (or as ready as you can be?) and for now we will snuggle for two hours after waking and then make cinnamon rolls and sit quietly by the window and watch the snow.
There is a certain glory to these weeks that are stretching so long, where every pang in my stomach is met with anticipation. With no travel in our future (unlike the past three Christmases), we have settled into the quiet, slow, waiting where boredom is a luxury on the verge of extinction. And so boredom is not even boredom anymore: it is a calm thankfulness, a quiet breath, a watching the squirrel scutter across the street.
The Christmas presents have already been opened and used, the family gatherings have all passed; so Advent this year feels more like what it's supposed to be. Contemplative, quiet, hope; a stilling of my soul.
There is a certain glory to these weeks that are stretching so long, where every pang in my stomach is met with anticipation. With no travel in our future (unlike the past three Christmases), we have settled into the quiet, slow, waiting where boredom is a luxury on the verge of extinction. And so boredom is not even boredom anymore: it is a calm thankfulness, a quiet breath, a watching the squirrel scutter across the street.
The Christmas presents have already been opened and used, the family gatherings have all passed; so Advent this year feels more like what it's supposed to be. Contemplative, quiet, hope; a stilling of my soul.
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