Plain Sight

 Last December, the woman sat in her chair and frowned as she looked out the window at the pin oak's bare branches dithering in the winter winds. She fretted over how ill-fated it seemed to stay rooted like that in one place.

These days, she tends to exchange memories for gratefulness, and, though the woman can't remember where she came across it, she'd copied down lines from Isaiah at the start of the year when she was thinking about New Year Resolutions.

Now, I am revealing new things to you

Things hidden and unknown to you

Created just now, this very moment.

Of these things, you have heard nothing until now.

So that you cannot say, Oh yes, I knew this. 

                                                                                                    Is. 48:6-7

In the bitter cold of winter, the freshness of the prophet's words heartened and connected the woman to the hopes and possibilities each new year invites. The mindfulness practice of opening to present moments was not new to her. But the idea of hidden and unknown things created just now suggested an immediacy that excited and drew her in. The subtle rebuke that followed, addressed to would-be know-it-alls, intrigued her. She read over the lines: You cannot say, Oh yes, I knew this. Of these things, you have heard nothing until now. The spirit of certainty in this translation stirred her heart, and she said to herself, In 2025, I want to know more about that which is hidden and new. She didn't know what she was saying yes to.

January's weather was freezing, but the woman was warm inside, and her energy was good. For days, she found herself going through files and, with a clear mind, trashed bags of useless papers. She dusted and culled multiple stacks of books so she could reshelve favorites. As the weeks passed, she tended injured clothes she'd long ago set aside, and she lost herself in the satisfaction of destaining and mending. One project led to another, and, eventually, she plunged into her stash of greeting cards and inked out loving thank-yous to distant family members and friends who'd connected during the holidays. Towards the end of the month, she dug out the forgotten novels she bought last summer, curled up, and opened into the richness of fictional worlds. She also found time to get herself back to the gym. 

Looking back, she wouldn't say anyone had lifted a veil; she'd always prided herself on being alert. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But it was funny. She would tell you something stirred after, uncharacteristically, she bought fresh tarragon at the grocery store. It had dramatically improved the feta dip she made, and she wasn't even sure why she'd decided to buy it. How could I be this old and just now be discovering the wonders of this piquant herb? After she made this remark to her husband, they both chuckled over the richness of ordinary life hiding there simply in plain sight.

February has now caught January's cold, and as the winds continue to blow, the same woman watches oak branches stir and shimmer in the sun. As she gets up from the couch to make more tea, she breathes in the aliveness of the moment, the invisible mysteries surrounding her, and the power of forces she's lately more open to see.