LISTEN // A February Song
February is always a month of celebration with birthdays and love days. But this year it was also a month of goodbyes, as I sent the two big kids off to school.
Both. And. There has been so much of this lately. Holding both sides of every story, every emotion, in my already full hands.
I felt this contrast deeply in my most recent read of Kristin Hannah’s The Great Alone. I picked it up for the Alaska story (we go later this year!) I stayed for the beauty and the sorrow. Even Alaska as the setting itself exemplifies this contrast—both the mighty creation and the fierce overwhelm. The darkness and the light. The humble and the impenetrable.
“She hoped she would never see it again. How sad that her hope felt like loss.”
There’s a magic in storytelling that happens when a simple phrase from a book finds its way into your heart at just the right moment, even when that story is far from your own. I discovered that magic recently when I stumbled upon these words in Hannah’s book. The main character, Leni, was saying goodbye to her home, a place of both love and tragedy. Her story is not my story. But her words felt like mine.
This month, my very noisy home became a whole lot quieter as the two big kids gradually made their way to classrooms and friends and playgrounds. I am very excited for them and their teachers. I am very happy to have my attention on just the one, as well as bandwidth for my own learning.
I am so full of hope for all of us in this new season.
And.
I never knew silence could be so loud.
I never knew overwhelm could feel so purposeful.
I never knew how much I held for twelve long months until I took that weight off my shoulders, tucked it into their little backpacks, and watched them walk away.
How sad indeed when hope feels like loss.
A sampling of sounds collected from this month, sounds that turn into wonders. Each one by itself unremarkable, but strung together, becomes a February Song. Paired with images because sometimes we listen with our eyes, too.
Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh. Three pairs of skis on freshly fallen snow.
Help! Two tiny new skiers, on their backs, skis in the air, looking for assistance.
Mama go faster. One in a backpack offering encouraging words.
I’m a little bit excited and a little bit nervous.
Me too.
The roar of a bright yellow school bus turning the corner to our house.
Bye, Mom! Love you!
How was your day?
AMAZING!
The creak of a bedroom door. Tip toes up stairs. Someone is awake. Can I read with you mommy?
Grandpa’s laughter on the end of the line.
Sure is good to hear your voice.
He’s home. It went well. They are getting their shots.
Whisk of eggs in a metal bowl. The sizzle of butter telling me it’s ready.
Muffled sounds of laughter through frosted window panes. Beep of an oven telling my scones are done.
The crack of pepper grinder and crunch of salt. Hot steak in pan. Date night.
I can still hear saying you will never break the chain…
Shake a Shake a Shake. Ice bouncing off the stainless steel cup chilling the spirits inside.
Mom, I like it when it’s just us.
Crack Crunch Crack Crunch. Ice on frozen sidewalks breaks under weight and sun.
It’s 40 degrees! Socially distanced happy hour, our backyard, 5:00!
Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to Daddy, and Elliott, Happy Birthday to you!
You can do it, babe. I’m proud of you.
I’m sorry, babe. I’m still proud of you.
Whirl. Whirt. Whirl. Marble rolls down, down, down a tube. Child and mom watch, equal mesmerization.
Bringgggggg. School Alarm! Time to go!
How was your day? What did you do? Did you miss me?
Tick. Tick. Tick. I never knew how many clocks we had in this house until no one was talking over them.
Click. Click. Click. Computer keys flying. My afternoon soundtrack. Hope and loss in one single sound.