February, a form
Pale-vestured, wildly fair,—
One of the North Wind’s daughters,
With icicles in her hair.
~Edgar Fawcett, “The Masque of Months,” c.1878
Icicles in her hair. Are parts of us cold and hardened, resembling those long icicle spears dangling from people’s roofs? The water no longer soft and fluid, but rigid and threatening. Is cynicism or sadness causing parts of us to freeze, thinking that to harden is to stay safe? I think that February is a picture of how many of us feel on the insides right now. Barren, tired, brittle. Gray, heavy, icy.
We buy piles of firewood every fall, and we use every bit of it. I am a lover of warmth, be it a fireplace, a hot bath or shower, a scalding beverage, thick wool socks + beanies, cashmere sweaters, a heated throw. I even keep plenty of Hot Hands in stock in a bathroom drawer for those adventures that I think might chill me. To be cold is to be miserable. When I get chilled, I shut down, wall off, send all of my personal and internal resources to find warmth again.
Home is our place to thaw. We can take those hardened parts of ourselves and in the safety of our home, we can become soft again. We can tenderize, marinating in the warm love of God. We can guard our homes from being places of volatility, defensiveness, hard-heartedness. This takes vigilance, repentance, humility. Iciness doesn’t belong in our havens; it should be reserved for the chest freezer, the champagne bucket, the red Slushee drink at the movie theater.
Today as I think about Home, I want it to be a soft place for myself, family, and friends. But am I soft? I can make my space as cozy as I can, but if I am not offering myself as cozy, have I lost the point? Do I have icicles in my hair?
I begin with a cup of hot Yorkshire tea, two sugars and a splash of half and half. I turn on my heated throw and curl up in my $10 navy blue floral chair in the corner of my den. I light a candle, a gift from a friend for Christmas. I sit in silence. It seems to be the quiet that softens me first. My guard comes down, my breath expands, and I feel like I can actually be. As a few minutes pass, I realize that there is nothing to be afraid of. God isn’t asking me to check the time, move quickly, get the tasks recorded in my planner. He likes me to linger. It’s my own little gods that seem to push me so hard, my own demands, fears, and expectations. My spiritual amnesia causes me to forget, almost daily, that He is different. It almost feels too good to be true.
In His quiet presence, I thaw. My home provided the space, but His love does the work. I soften as He speaks words of acceptance, care, and worth to me. He speaks truth to the tender places. He revives the soul. He calls me Beloved. And the beloved ones are the soft ones: the ones who can care, smile, give, apologize, listen, empathize, bend, lighten. The ones this world needs. The ones our little worlds need.
May our homes be spaces where we can soften. May silence pave the way. His Words the balm.
You are loved,
Aimee
Yes! Home as a place to thaw and soften~I love this.
Aimee, you have such a way with words and wonderful perspective on life! Thank you for sharing and reminding me of the need to be still. I love the perspective you share!