January Juice
There is no other time of year quite like the month of January, when I can unabashedly give myself permission to just shut down. Somehow, miraculously, no matter how insane December has been, January arrives; a creamy blank new page simply asking to be gazed upon - never ever filled.
it’s cold and grey. That alone gives me a pass. There’s not a single holiday in this fresh faced month that requires me to run out shopping for things I can’t afford, for people who probably don’t need what I just charged. School is not starting - or ending; no long break looms. The entire 31 day month spreads out in front of me like white icing on a Walmart sheet cake. After the school bus comes, I sit by the fire in my robe with a steaming cup of Joe. We’d really be talking, if only it would snow.
My favorite thing to do in January is Meditate. Truth be told, there just doesn’t seem to be another month during the year in which the deep recesses of my brain woo me with such ardor. My hiking boots call me in May; the strawberries need picking in June. My paddle board pulls me in August, along with the birthday crew. Old friends round the bend in October, when we gather to watch birds call.
January, she’s the Perfect Woman. She doesn’t ask a thing. Queen of Boredom, she wins my heart, sending cold weather coyotes, who circle my Doing and hem me close to home. There is simply an irresistible pull toward my Source during the short, the dark, the epitome of Winter, when no one is demanding anything of me - not even, and most especially, me.
My destination is the 3rd ventricle of my brain, that center dome of spacious escape - the ancient Cave of God, container of my dares and dreams, sweet nectar fount, known well to those for whom Blue Light is simply a reflection of the chakra below..
Where else can you find this vaulted sky emptiness, this absolutely virgin Cathedral of Grace?
Once invited, the steeped-in-soma Sacred Light pours in, inspiring every exhausted cell - laughing at my notions, rebirthing my motions - of separateness and strife. There’s no asking for permission, no shyly backing up; no guilt for indulging, no shame in being Thine.
It’s only Only Now… and it’s Always Only Mine.
I can’t convince you to Practice; not even going to try. But if you ever find yourself, standing on the Root, where all the doors open Up and every breath is Flame, I’d place my bet it’s January, calling you by name.
