back, writing.

How good--how right--to sit down and write here. It is my first time back in this space in a couple months, the first time I do so since we rang in the new year. Like many of you, I reckon, I welcomed 2021 with relief and hope. On a personal scale, many moments that transpired in 2020 were abundantly joyous. My reasons for gratitude are endless: the end of long-distance, our engagement, good health, job security, a tremendous community here in Vancouver, deepened friendships, a loving family I can communicate with easily despite the distance between us, many steady reminders of God's lovingkindness and provision. 

Despite these sources of great gladness, I found myself drained by the end of the year. I don't care to fully detail the difficulties of 2020 here, but I'll leave it at this: although this year was peppered with the sweetest of memories and marked by God's ever-present nearness, it was a really hard one for me spiritually, physically, emotionally. The move and robust transitions, the pandemic and disheartening headlines, the distance from family and continued isolation, the dashed wedding plans and constant uncertainty, the long hours and massive work changes. These realities and vignettes all affected me far more than I realized as I lived them. 

The Christmas season proved to be a delightful respite from the stressful season preceding it, allowing me to anchor myself and look back earnestly. These unhurried yuletide days begged for introspection. Yet, instead of feeling celebratory about the year I was about to part from, I felt like I had been underwater too long, and was only now approaching the surface to finally gasp for a lungful of air. 

It's as if I finally gave myself the permission to call this year what it was (hard), notwithstanding genuine gratefulness for its blessings, too.

All this to say, I was deeply happy to approach the new year, and I have high hopes for it. Among these hopes is, in the words of Emily P. Freeman, to create space for my soul to breathe. I plan on doing this with those things that most thrill and fulfill me, and that make me feel alive. Ultimately, writing is one of them. 

Call me ambitious, but I do plan on writing more around here, in 2021. 

I care for this space, and I care for you who reads here (especially those of you who have stuck around and still ask me about the blog here and there!). Hence I don't want to neglect the blog as I have in this past year. 

There is something about taking a step back from the blog--to revel in other diversions, to rest, to focus on what is tangible and right before me--that works contrariwise: the witting pause always ends up goading me on to further writing. 

That's a long-winded way of saying this: I have been filling the ivory pages of my journal with reflections on this past year. And it has been good for me.

So, as 2021 continues to unfold, I will write. 

In doing so, I think I'll be better able to make sense of the intricacies and particularities of the year ahead. An important year in my life, at that! 

In 2021: 

I will write about the very real grief of planning a wedding during a pandemic. Too, I will write about becoming a wife, and the distinct blessings and challenges of early marriage. 

I will write about time and rest and work and boundaries, and how difficult it is for me to strike the right balance between them. 

I will write about home, the very best word there is. 

I will write about what I am learning about caring for my body, and what it means for me to have an embodied faith. 

I will write about the things of God, and about uncovering the holy in the everyday. 

I will write about my love of French press, acoustic music and my very long approach to reading the Bible in the morning.

I will write about how I am discerning my calling (or trying to, at least!), and how I am untangling next steps regarding my career and education. 

I will write about how much I love each season. I missed Montreal's snowfall this year, but I am so very eager to see Vancouver's blooms in a few weeks. There is nothing like drifts of blush cherry blossom petals carpeting every street. 

I will write about how I am teaching myself to view each moment as a memory-in-the-making, and how this changes everything. 

I will write about the big things and the little things. 

I will see where the writing leads me. Said E.L. Doctorow about writing: "It's like driving a car at night. You never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way."

It's really good to be back!

From where I work, write, read, create.