Mid-January and I have emerged from the moment between the years when I rest: two weeks—from Winter Solstice to the first Monday in January. The small educational company of PeerSpirit, Inc. lies dormant for 14 days. The books Ann Linnea and I have written this past year are off to the printers after the final, final edits and proofreading, along with a lot of our hopes and dreams.

I entered these two weeks of annual retreat tired, satisfied, and sorrowful…an interesting combination of emotions. Tired makes the most sense—looking back at our workload and how the teaching, coaching, quest guiding, consulting and writing all require intense presence, creativity, and stamina. Satisfied also makes sense—looking back at the same year through the lens of output, interaction, the legacy of our work being captured on the page, and through opportunities to meet hundreds of incredible, wonderful, extraordinary people doing their best to live good lives in challenging times. And sorrowful when I look into the wider scope of things and ask questions like:

Why are we escalating the war in Afghanistan—when we could practically rebuild the country for what it’s costing us to further destroy it?

And if it costs a million dollars a year to support a US soldier, and much of our military consists of young men and women who can’t find jobs in their local civilian economies, couldn’t we more readily support them through bringing work to them that isn’t likely to maim them in body, mind, or spirit?

And why can’t we have universal health care in the US when every other country we measure ourselves against already has it?

So, what actually happened in Copenhagen—and why are the outcomes so ambiguous when the crises are so concrete?

You get the idea—I finally have time to ruminate on all those things that I have been counting on the international world to resolve while I’ve been so involved in the interpersonal world. Sorrow is ultimately restorative—like filling up the water table, not visible on the surface, yet deeply sustaining. After a week or so, I feel the shift into restfulness and after a week of rest, a shift back into willingness. That’s where I am now—in the willingness.

Part of the willingness is that I have had time to re-evaluate and rearrange my story—the way I carry forward tasks, accomplishments, work and play, relationships, and questions of my life. I step over the threshold of the New Year as though it has been freshly painted.

So here’s my story now: I remain committed to legacy transmission in what I love about story and storycatching, in circle process and transformative presence with each other, and in earth stewardship, especially supporting Ann’s book on trees. I expect this year to change radically as we go along, as the books come out, and people respond. There are indicators of this in the first pieces of work we’ve done on the road: we have integrated something through the act of writing. We stand resiliently in our bodies of work, we talk differently, people respond even more readily—and we sense that the shift happening in the room is happening in the world.

And that is the point where your stories and mine intersect: what is happening in the rooms of our lives is happening in the world. What are you noticing is different as you enter the world of your work this January?