Last updated on January 1st, 2025 at 07:07 pm
after the long dark
in the quiet between years
i feel something unfurling
like spring leaves after winter's
longest night / a softening
at the edges of memory
2020 sits heavy in my bones
a stone i've carried through
five turns of the earth / but now
something shifts / transforms
like frost melting into morning
my spirit remembers how to rise
the way seedlings know to reach
toward light / breaking through
soil that once felt too heavy
to lift
plans scatter like stars
across my desk / each one
a tiny constellation of possibility
& for the first time in years
my lungs remember how to fill
completely with tomorrow's air
hope blooms in unexpected corners
unfolds its delicate architecture
against the sunrise of 2025
& I emerge from this chrysalis
of careful survival, wings
catching first light
Mary Kaye Chambers (12/31/24)
Reflection
You know, it’s funny how writing this poem helped me understand exactly what I’ve been feeling lately. I’ve been sitting here at my desk, looking at all my plans for 2025, and something just feels different. Good different, you know?
When I wrote that line about 2020 being “a stone I’ve carried through five turns of the earth,” I literally felt the weight of it in my chest. It’s wild how those years have just… sat there, heavy and real. But lately, I can feel that weight shifting. Not gone exactly, but changing into something else.
I keep coming back to that image of spring leaves unfurling. That’s exactly how this hope feels – natural and quiet, but persistent. Like how plants don’t make a big show of growing, they just do it because that’s what they’re meant to do. That’s how this feels. Like maybe hope is just as natural as leaves growing or seeds sprouting.
The part about my lungs remembering how to fill completely with tomorrow’s air – I wrote that because I suddenly realized I’d been holding my breath for years in a way. Not literally, but like I’d been breathing shallow, waiting for the next bad thing. And now I can take these deep, full breaths again. It’s such a simple thing, but it feels huge.
I ended up using a lot of nature images – frost melting, seedlings reaching, wings catching light. I guess because this change feels organic, not forced. Like I’m not making it happen, I’m just finally allowing it to happen.
What gets me most when I read it back is that line about “careful survival.” That’s exactly what it’s been, hasn’t it? We’ve all been so careful, so cautious. But now… now it feels like maybe we can do more than just survive.
You know what’s strange? Writing this actually made me cry a little, but not from sadness. More like… recognition. Like finally seeing something clearly that’s been fuzzy for a long time. Does that make sense?
Journal Prompts
poem:
- “In the quiet between years…” – Describe a moment when you felt time pause or shift. What did that transition feel like in your body?
- The poem mentions a stone carried through five turns of the earth. What “stones” have you been carrying? Draw or write about their weight, their texture, what they’ve taught you.
- Think about your own chrysalis of “careful survival.” What protective layers did you build around yourself since 2020? Which ones are you ready to shed?
- “Plans scatter like stars” – Spread your current hopes and plans across a page. Draw lines between the ones that form their own constellations. What patterns do you see?
- Write about a memory from the past five years where you felt most confined, then write about a recent moment where you felt hope “unfurling.” What changed between these two moments?
- “My spirit remembers how to rise” – What parts of yourself are you rediscovering? What had you forgotten that’s now returning?
- The poem uses many nature metaphors (spring leaves, frost melting, seedlings). Write about your own healing or growth using a different nature metaphor that speaks to you.
- “My lungs remember how to fill completely with tomorrow’s air” – What does it feel like in your body when you think about 2025? Where do you feel openness? Where do you still feel constriction?
- Explore the “unexpected corners” where hope has started blooming in your life. What tiny signs of renewal have you noticed?
- Write a letter to yourself from 2020, then write a response from your 2025 self. What would each version of you need to hear?
YOUR TURN:
Write a poem that begins with the smallest noticeable change in your day – a shifted breath, a lingering glance, an extra moment spent watching steam rise from your cup. Build outward from this intimate detail until you reveal how this tiny shift mirrors a larger transformation taking place within you. Let this be your map toward hope, anchored in the concrete details of your world. End somewhere unexpected, where light finds its way in.