In winter, the bones of the trees are exposed. And with them, all the nests.
Have you seen them?
This year, I have noticed for the first time: when the leaves are gone, you can see so very many nests.
Small creatures ferried twigs and leaves and bits and pieces to perfect spots nestled in high branches among thick leaves, places that would offer protection from the wide world. And now, those thick leaves are gone. Their safe spaces are so easy to see. Vulnerable. Exposed.
Writing exposes, too, and there have been posts in this month's I Love You And You Are Not Alone series that I've been nervous to publish. Coming from a home in theatre, I find an extra risk in writing things that are personal, that are not in character. An extra risk in admitting out loud that you love people. In saying it over and over and over again.
As it happens, this I Love You And You Are Not Alone series has had a surprising effect--on me. In the writing--and also in reading the responses you've emailed or left in the comments--I've been reassured that I, too, am not alone.
I'm so grateful for that.
As is the case for most everything we do, deciding to post every day this month also meant deciding that some other things would be left undone for a while. And after a month of intense output, I need to rest and make some time to re-fill the well.
So I'm taking a short break. I'll see you again here in mid-January, when I'm planning to write weekly-ish.
Thank you for hanging out with me in this way this December. I wish you a clear and peaceful ending to 2016.
I still love you. And you are still not alone. And it turns out, neither am I.