JANUARY.

Am I right?

January and I have had a hard time getting along for about as far back as I can remember.  Like all relationships, ours has evolved over the years, but it has typically been troubled.

We’ve had seasons as flat out foes, bordering on fistfights.

There have been times of tense truce.

And, because I hate conflict, repeated attempts at peacemaking, with fair-to-middling results.

These days, I’m just trying to let January be whatever it wants to be, respect its journey, allow all the feelings.  But that is easier said than done when it acts like a moody teenager, all heady and invincible one day (minute?), surly and insistent on staying in bed the next.  

Naturally, I’m a pro at mirroring behavior, so it’s been a bit of a ride over here the past few weeks.

Last week,  in the midst of our annual skirmish, I pushed pause for a few hours to celebrate my aunt Rebecca’s birthday. 

Rebecca was part fairy godmother, part meaningful mentor to my siblings and me.  I would have dearly loved for my children to know her, too, but she passed away in a sudden accident and we held her funeral on my first anniversary. 

I’m a definite fan of holidays and birthdays and various minor celebrations, so when my children were little and January was being especially difficult, I started celebrating Aunt Rebecca’s birthday to simultaneously help preserve her memory and to put a bright spot in my month.  

I don’t always go to the cemetery, but I’ve found it’s a pilgrimage I love to make when I can, and I try to visit at least once through the year around her or my grandparents’ birthdays.

As I cleared a thin layer of snow off her headstone, I did the math again and realized that Rebecca was only ten years older than I am now when she passed away.  That hits a lot closer to home than it used to.

The fairy godmother aspects of our relationship were especially magical as a child, and the mentorship she offered was definitely valuable as I was stepping into adulthood.   But I have different questions and life experiences now and I wish I could sit with her over a cup of hot lemon-water and a morning bun to sort through my mid-life conundrums and hear what she learned about reinventing herself in her forties.

Instead, I delivered flowers and sat wrapped in a blanket with my coat, my coziest socks, and my own thoughts  in the chilly 30-degree morning sunshine on a patch of grass where the snow had melted off.  In the solitary stillness, sounds filtered through distantly as though a giant bubble were around the cemetery, muted as if hearing them from underwater… a gentle ringing from a bell at a nearby grave, blowing intermittently… chattering birds… an occasional car… a random neighbor using a power tool… the school bell down the street…

It was good for my soul to sit and breathe and be still.  I would have stayed longer, but I knew that my child’s school bell would be ringing soon, too, and I had to get back in time for pickup. 

* * * * *

A couple days later I felt a nudge to finally pick up a book that my sister had lent me a while ago, one that Rebecca had given her many years ago and she thought I might appreciate now.  As I began reading, I discovered the content feels very salient to my current stage of life.

It reminded me that maybe the conversation with Rebecca is still ongoing, even if muted a bit; I just have to listen in a different way than I used to.

* * * * *

The clock just ticked past midnight and we have officially turned the corner into February 1.  That means January and I can give each other a little time and space and I am not mad about it.  I intend to get reacquainted with February, perhaps over some hot lemon-water and my book, once the kids are off to school in the morning.

I’m interested to discover what I might hear in the stillness.