I’ve never been a fan of winter. Even as a kid, I hated being cold. Sure, I’d play outside for awhile, making snow people and having snowball fights with my sisters. But after an hour or so, I’d retreat indoors by the fire with a good book or video game, dreaming of warm days filled with shooting baskets, playing catch with my dad, and tromping through the woods.
That’s why I loved robins. As the long, gray months of Michigan winters wound to a close, I would peer expectantly out the windows, eager to catch a glimpse of the first robin of spring. The bird became a symbol of hope for me, a sign that winter was indeed almost over, and the long-anticipated renewal was almost here.
With homemade masks on against the coronavirus, my wife Lisa and I were walking in a nearby park recently when I saw a flash of red. Hopping from place to place, looking for seeds beneath an oak tree, was a robin. The sight brought me back to my childhood, and along with it came a familiar longing.
Like all of us, I feel trapped in a long coronavirus winter, stuck inside when I’d rather be out playing. And unlike winter, the current pandemic induced season we’re in has no reliable end-date. All we know is that it’s going to be a long slog. That’s a depressing thought.
But the robin reminded me of an important truth. This winter will pass. Spring will come. It always does. Research will be completed. Containment measures will be improved. A vaccine will eventually be found. The world we return to will probably look differently than we remember when we finally emerge, blinking in the sun. This experience will change us, as 9/11 did, and we’ll adapt to a new normal. But it’s going to be okay. We’re going to get there. Together.
So what’s your symbol of hope? What image or word or experience or possession or animal or person reminds you of a promised renewal? Perhaps yours relates to the hopeful message of the recent Easter season. It could be the aroma of fresh baked bread. Maybe it’s the sunrise, or a cherished book or song.
Whatever it is, find a way to focus on that symbol during this challenging time. Place it on a sticky note on your mirror. Use it as your phone’s home screen or computer background. Add it to your playlist. Set it on your nightstand. Bake it tonight. If you do, you’ll feel the winds of hope begin to stir, and you’ll take another step toward Becoming Yourself.
In the spirit of the holidays, this is part 2 of a story I originally posted in November of 2017 that reminds us that our inner child still has lessons to teach…
Then I saw it. Fifteen feet farther down the slope, I could just make out a glow coming from beneath a bush. The upward angle of Lisa’s vantage point gave her the illusion that I had reached our ghost when I was really above it. I made my way toward the mysterious light as quickly as I dared, my wounded ankle reminding me of the price of haste.
In honor of the kid inside all of us who longs to come out at Christmas, I decided to repost a story I originally shared in October of 2017. May it inspire your inner 10 year old this holiday!
I asked my wife, Lisa, to come out, and with the aid of binoculars, we watched it dim and brighten, swirl and pulse in a seemingly random pattern. For fifteen minutes, we observed it, trying to come up with every possible rational explanation. It wasn’t the reflected light of a headlight or a swimming pool. It wasn’t landscape lighting from a backyard. It wasn’t a white cloth fluttering in the breeze reflecting moonlight. Our best guess was that it was a light-up dog toy that a hiker tossed to their pet up on the hill. Maybe it went over the edge and got lodged on the slope. Eventually we went to bed, still wondering.
In that moment, wearing pajamas, standing in the dark, my head still fuzzy from sleep, I asked myself a question – should I go investigate? An internal tug-of-war began between my current 48-year-old self and my former 10-year-old self. 48’s argument went something like this:
Happiness is an elusive goal. I usually find it when I’m chasing other things. I’m not saying that a key to happiness is to do EVERYTHING that would make my 10-year-old self proud (Oreo pizza a la mode for dinner anyone?). But for me, this challenge is a good one. I too easily default to the “shoulds” in my life. The grown-up responsibilities. The expected. The practical. When I was 10, I wanted to chase ghosts. I wanted to write a book. A spooky, mystery-adventure book. In honor of my childhood self, I just chased a ghost. I’ve also started that book. I’m on chapter 22 and having a ball. I’ll let you know when I’m done.