#135. Regenerate

I don't know about you, but late October doesn't feel like the right time to launch new adventures. At the same time, I get restless.

What do you do when it feels like nothing's happening, but you can't help feeling that something must happen?

A few weeks ago, we poked around in the ashes to see what was still glowing. Then we looked at the fires we were tending and asked whether they still deserved our precious wood, breath, and attention.

Rekindle. Release. Now what? Maybe nothing. At least not yet. Because after all that poking around, something has changed. We've remembered what still matters and noticed what costs too much. We've reclaimed some wood, breath, energy, and attention.

And here we are. Not starting over. Not returning to zero. We couldn't if we wanted to.

We've learned things. Earned things. Survived things. Careers have ended. Relationships changed. Dreams didn't happen. Roles were outgrown. Mistakes were made—and, with any luck, learned from.

Think about a fire sweeping across a mountainside. In the moment, it looks like devastation. What stood there for years is scorched or gone. Deadwood burns away. The landscape is exposed, unfamiliar, quiet.

The mountainside doesn't immediately burst into green to reassure us that everything will be okay. It waits. Nutrients have returned to the soil. Seeds that were waiting for the right conditions have their chance.

In due time, life returns—sometimes abundantly—in a landscape made different by the fire. Maybe regeneration in our lives looks something like that.

We've spent years accumulating roles, responsibilities, relationships, expectations, habits, ambitions, and ideas about who we're supposed to be. Much of it served us well. Some of it may even have run on autopilot for years.

When we poked around, asking: What still has life? What is costing too much? What are we ready to stop feeding?—we were clearing deadwood.

There's a difference between not knowing what's next and believing there's nothing next. I don't necessarily need to know what's next. It might just not be the right time to know what’s next.

And waiting is not the same as standing still.

A new interest. A different friendship. An unexpected idea. A boundary that creates new space. A tiny decision that wouldn't have been possible before we stopped spending our energy somewhere else.

We don't have to turn any of it into a plan. We can simply pay attention.

What feels different now? Where is there more room? What are we curious about? What possibility keeps tapping us on the shoulder, even if we aren't quite ready to turn around and face it?

Late October doesn't demand visible growth. The days are shortening. The year is winding down. Nature isn't putting on much of a show.

Neither do we have to. Rekindle what still has life. Release what has run its course.

Then give yourself some room. You don't have to know exactly what will grow next.

You're already creating the conditions.