It’s the wee hours. Molly sleeps on top of the blanket covering my legs that are stretched out and resting on a hassock in front of the wing chair in my woman cave. Five candles flicker atop my writing desk—one for each day of Advent and the fifth for Christmas. The light they offer is not as bright as it was a week ago, but I will leave them to light my way in the early morning hours for as long as the batteries hold out. The sun doesn’t rise until around 9:00 a.m. these days; we need all the light we can get.
And the world. Oh, the world. We need so much light there too. Despite all my talk about cultivating peace in the space we inhabit, I have spent too much time reading and watching news stories lately and it has taken a toll. So, on this morning, after a time of contemplating and reading, I turn to John O’Donohue’s Anam Cara instead.
In the fifth section of the book, O’Donohue writes about the inner harvest we can reap as we age. Lately, I have been thinking about stages of life and the gift of growing older that has, thus far, been granted to me. I feel, keenly, a shift that has not yet completed the movement from before to after. Getting through the muddy middle requires leaning in, rather than resisting. There is something for me in these later years. I don’t want to miss it.
I read, highlighting passages I think I might return to, until I come to a single sentence that ties everything together that I’ve read up to this point.
“Wisdom is the art of living with your soul, your life, and the divine.” ~ John O’Donohue, Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom
The last week of a year is one of finishing, preparation, and self-reflection. This one seemed different. I found myself with a sense of leaving something unfinished. Impulsively, I chose a word for 2025 but haven’t embraced it. Now, in the quiet of this morning, in the light of battery-operated candles and a faux fireplace that warms my room and with a little Yorkie who has climbed into my arms to cuddle, I acknowledge that and, ironically, since the word was RELEASE, I let it go.
O’Donohue’s thoughts on aging guide me to take a path that seems better suited for where I am right now. He writes of “being courageous and generous with the unknown” and embracing the treasure of what is. Pursuing the art of cohesiveness in terms of who I am, how I live, and in the presence and awareness of that which is holy is wisdom. It’s simple, and yet there’s so much to unpack.
Maybe the word I originally chose was for a week rather than the entire year, and releasing it in favour of something more meaningful fulfilled its purpose. Instead, a sentence. An idea. A way forward. Something with more substance to take with me into a new year.
Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s past the time when I usually get moving, so I close the book, shift Molly off my lap, and stand, working out the kinks in my no-longer-young body before opening the door of my office and stepping out into the day with renewed intention—and work to do.
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