New Year, New Start… Slightly Delayed
I had plans for the new year. Lovely ones. Fresh-start plans. Purposeful plans. The kind involving momentum, organisation, and possibly colour-coded bookshelves. Meeting new people and making new connections.
Instead, a week or so in, the year arrived sideways.
The second week was devoted to minding a German Short haired Pointer with a résumé that included previously poorly treated and emotionally complex. She arrived highly strung, deeply suspicious of sudden noises, and vibrating at a frequency only dogs and nervous systems can hear. We offered her what we could while her people holidayed overseas: quiet corners, gentle routines, and a generous supply of Reiki. Somewhere between day three and four, she exhaled. We followed suit.
Unpacking, meanwhile, has stalled completely. Not due to lack of intention—there is plenty of intention—but due to a lack of bookshelves.
Books now live in boxes half opened, judging me silently. I tell them it’s temporary. They don’t believe me.
Adding to the ambience, a particularly tenacious strain of Covid settled into the household and made itself at home. Social plans were swiftly cancelled, replaced by isolation in the outer suburbs of a country town where nobody knows us yet although I’m making friends with a vocal Wagtail and a flock of Starlings that come to bathe in the birdbath now the GSP has returned to her home. A very quiet new beginning. Monastic, even—if monasteries relied on food delivery apps.
The shopping arrived via Uber drivers who seemed personally offended by our location, our order, and possibly our existence. I felt it prudent not to mention the illness and kept my distance. The deliveries were accepted with gratitude and the vague sense of having inconvenienced someone by needing to eat.
Still, creativity found a way. I completed a New Moon page for my Art Therapy diary—because if you can’t manifest forward motion, you can at least document the pause. I also began a crochet blanket in various shades of grey, chosen to perfectly reflect my current mental health palette. It’s surprisingly soothing. Either that or I’ve simply leaned in.
So here we are. The year has started, technically. The plans are waiting patiently (or tapping their feet). The visiting dog has gone home, our Labrador breathed a sigh of relief, the books remain boxed, the blanket grows row by row, and the new beginning is happening—just much more quietly than expected.
Apparently, this is how it starts sometimes. Not with fireworks or resolutions, but with rest, recalibration, and a grumpy Uber driver dropping hints about tipping.
New year. Slightly postponed enthusiasm. And maybe that’s the lesson arriving in disguise. Resilience doesn’t always look like pushing forward or bouncing back with enthusiasm. Sometimes it looks like slowing right down, tending what’s frayed, and offering gentleness where force would only make things worse.
The Universe sends me that message with the frequent drawing of The Hermit Tarot card.
Healing, I’m learning (again), often begins in the quiet margins: in steady breath, in repetitive stitches, in making space for a nervous dog—or a nervous system—to feel safe enough to settle.
The plans will unfold when they’re ready. For now, this softer beginning to the new year is enough.