it doesn't take much: how letting go let the light in.
When I was a little girl, my younger sister and I discovered the mysterious world of Narnia - or our version of it - on the grassy hill beside our childhood home.
Between the blades of grass, we would search for and gather garter snakes (some of which would, to my mother's dismay, end up inside the house), play intricate games of make-believe, and craft sleds out of large cardboard boxes, whizzing down the hillside with joyful screams. We created code names and imaginative worlds. I was Morning Glory, she was Forget-Me-Not, sisters named after the flowers of the fields.
It was sweet and playful and... magic.
It didn't take much, and my world was full.
November, draped in the hues of autumnal bounty and filled with feasting and community celebration, is all about gratitude. And, while that gratitude can (and does) come in the form of festivity and celebration, it can also show up in its most humble and foundational form... enoughness.
Enoughness. It's the recognition of abundance, the recognition that we have all the tools and makings of joy at our disposal now, that we have enough, are enough.
This month, as I shared about in last week's post, I've been tapping into the practice of gratitude-soaked enoughness. This past week, in preparation for Thanksgiving and the fast-approaching holiday season, I have been focusing in on its physical, tangible, material expression.
Before I go any further, let me start off by saying this: I love the holiday season. I mean, I loooooove it. The lights, the warmth, the aromas and glimmering nostalgia. Some of my most vivid and warmest memories surround the traditions, both old and new, that infuse this season with its magic.
And, I'm also deeply aware of the darker sides of the season. The loneliness and anxiety, the commercial manipulation and the emptiness-fueled want, want, want, spend, spend, spend.
I believe that the practice and celebration of enoughness is the both the antidote to this darkness and the doorway to light.
And there is no better time than the present to infuse the world with a little more light. -- TWEET THIS!
So, this month, inspired by the belief that I both have enough and am enough, right now, I have been using that same lens to re-examine my material enoughness. I am grounding myself in abundant thinking and turning on its head my personal story about what I need for joy.
"Discard everything that does not spark joy."
- Marie Kondo
Slowly but surely, I have spent the past week removing the things that, as Kondo says, do not spark joy. Clothing, DVDs, unused kitchenware, books. Items that once brought me light and life, to be gifted in some form to someone else.
If I'm being honest, it has not always been easy for me to part with my belongings, particularly when parting with my books. Oh, the books. Each one meant something to me, was read at a particular time in my life, was packed with nostalgia and meaning. But, gazing through the lens of abundance, I realized that the memories associated with their pages live on whether or not they sit on my shelves.
And so they go.
In their place, I'm inviting gratitude and enoughness to come and stay.
In their place, I'm making space for the kind of joy that lasts, that lingers. Time with my partner and pets, family and dearest friends. The joy in cracking open the pages of books that I've had for ages, always wanting to read, never seeing past the chaos on my once crowded shelves. The peace found slowly sipping tea, soaking in the lights and warmth and spirit of the season. The light and love in giving, in experiences that connect and engage and feed the soul.
I have all that I need and more. Letting go means letting in more light, more love, more joy.
As I sit here, curled up in a blanket on my couch, I can hear the sweet sounds of puppy snores beside me. On the table in front of me, there sits a cup of coffee, lightly sweetened with almond milk, and a flickering candle. It's sweet and beautiful and all a part of my writing ritual, especially when I'm writing about something close to my heart.
It doesn't take much, and my heart is full.