The One With The Reflections Of 37
It has been a long journey here. The past year felt more like many lifetimes. On the one hand, how wonderful it was for a whole year to feel so long. Some say that by this age time moves faster. Well, I can say that I have felt thirty-seven for a very long time. Does that mean time wasn’t flying? Does that mean I wasn’t having fun?
As I approach my next lap around the sun, I embrace the chance to write my ode to the year that was. I’ve been engaging in these yearly reflections for about eight years now. They are an expression of my inner world, a chance for me to be still and process the journey. It’s almost like examining a tree, documenting the way it transformed throughout the seasons - blooming, shedding and blooming again. Did it bear fruit? Did it survive the harshest storms? Did I?
I shared in a recent message with my dearest friend, Jarka, that if I had one word to describe thirty-seven, it would be discomfort. Indeed it’s not on the joyous side of the spectrum, although joy did live here, many times. It’s just been a year of uncomfortable growth, but growth nonetheless.
Back in May of 2023, I embarked on my book tour. At that time, I'll admit, I was mildly burnt out - although I didn't know it. I was full steam ahead with a focus on getting my book out into the world. I'd dedicated one year to pouring a period of my life into a memoir. I dug up emotions. I was self-critical. I relived hard moments and beautiful ones, and although I was elated to embark on that grand book tour, parts of me were shedding to make space for the new - just like the tree.
When we go through this shedding it’s as though we are living in our very own version of winter. We are invited to slow down, to rest, to be still. But I had no time to slow down. I will rephrase - I did not make the time to slow down. I continued on great adventures to places like Colombia, Guatemala, Australia and England. I journeyed with plant medicines, guided by the wisdom of ancient indigenous tribes. I sang beneath the full moon amongst the animate wilderness and communed with the spirits of great lands. These journeys led me to people who taught me so much; who guided me on this lifelong journey of remembering. And I continued to remember my place in it all, my timeless journey here. However, I was two steps ahead of myself, eager for the spring without allowing the winter (patience isn’t my strong suit.) It was as though I was living two seasons at once. Parts of me were simultaneously dying and being reborn.
When 2024 came along it was as if a huge storm rolled through and blew off the last of the leaves on my metaphorical tree. On the same day that I decided to put my heavily mortgaged apartment in Sydney up for sale, I was let go from my job. This was on top of deciding to shift my energies away from The Altruistic Traveller, and I was also dealing with feelings of wanting to slow down any travel plans and consider a sedentary lifestyle for a change. So many areas of my life that I associated with stability were dissolving before my eyes. A part of me was petrified, but a part of me wanted to let these things go. They were associated with the old me, threads connecting me to a past version of self.
I’d been here before (I wrote about it in Soul Truth.) I’d gone through these seasons before, just like we all do, but I thought they would get easier. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps there was something still to learn about great change. Are we ever really prepared for death? Perhaps letting go isn’t meant to be easy.
In the lead-up to thirty-eight, I found myself in a reclusive mental space with little energy. Grief consumed me. I’d lost my job, I had no physical home, all my dearest friends were dispersed around the globe and I had distanced myself from family members while I focused on healing inner child wounds that also arose through the process of letting go. I had gone through so much change and had not allowed myself to process it all. So, I went to the one sanctuary I knew had everything I needed to heal and process that grief. I went into solitude. I went inwards into stillness.
I am writing to you from a farm in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales, Australia. I sit beneath a beautiful tree, its bare branches against the backdrop of a clear blue sky resemble the veins of a heart. It is winter here. I can feel the chill of the breeze on my cheeks. The nights are long. Everything around me is resting. The rose bushes have only a few leaves left and the occasional resilient flower that reminds me of what is to come. I am in winter. I am winter. And I know that the closing of these chapters in my life is allowing new ones to be written. We change - we're supposed to. Even if it's scary. Even if it's painful. Even when we don’t know what’s on the other side…
With all my love,
~B
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