an alternate year

in many ways, my sense of time shifted permanently last spring.

the calendar said March, but my life spoke to it being a new year. a new place. a "new" country. a new job.

I have struggled for almost a year trying to describe how those first few months were filled. I still don't think I have the words or even the capacity to begin.

but I do know there was a deep "before" and "after" chasm that formed in my life.

January came this year and I couldn't process 2011 as a cohesive year. There are two 2011's for me. One in Mongolia and one here in the United States.

There is another year altogether for me, one that does not have a numerical marker. It is simply this year back in the States. It does not run from January to January. It does not follow school vacations or cultural celebrations. It is, in fact, a whole lot messier and blurry and unconfined.

I am nearing the end of that year, this messy year of March to March. This year of moving and leaving, of coming and going, of weeping and praying, of searching and questioning, of deserts and glimpses of hope. This year of so, so many contrasts and so much wrestling.

It is an interesting thing, this year of one's own. Made of my own transitions and grasping, my own sorting and falling apart and being put back together by the trusting hands of the Holy and the loved.

Of walking paths and seasons that don't run according to a plan.

Of learning my own rhythms, my own timetables, my own seasons and the things they will and should and would and could hold.

Oh those words, those wills and shoulds and woulds and coulds.

A year of breaking open their constraints and placing them where I will allow them to hold their ground. Of deciding there is space for them, but only on my terms, only where I will let them cause reaching, not despairing.

Because it's my year(s). Mine to surrender, mine to give, mine to live in the freedom of a God who says come and who calls with the sweetest of whispers.

there has been much room for whispers in this year of mine. much space for silence and quiet and being stuck in thoughts that run in circles without ends.

this year of mine has not been easy. it has not even necessarily been happy. but it has indeed been good.

in its own ways, in its own shapes and sizes and expressions. there is no one form of good and this year has held many varying shades of that deep hue we hold in our eyes and hearts and hands.

so as this year of mine comes to its final month, I am letting there be honesty in my reflection. I am not painting in wide strokes that cover, but in the small ones that speak of details- minutes and moments and thoughts.

I am letting this year of mine exist.