On this, the first day of Advent, I keep thinking about this season as one of preparation while also for some reason returning to the phrase, ‘our bodies are a temple.’

When I think of temples, I think of stained glass, of ritual prayer. I think of protective walls and pews in which to rest. I think of a place where questions are asked and answers found.

I got up early today for the first time in years for a private yoga practice and found myself humbled by the way in which a ritual can pull you back into something you forgot about yourself. Especially in the fog of postpartum.

The glass through which we look at our lives isn’t always clear. Sometimes it’s distorted, frosted, or foggy, sometimes stained in vibrant yellows or bloody reds, stormcloud grays or tinted rose. I now look back at the shards of time since 2020 and see in relief all the ways I have held tension. I’ve held grief. I’ve held babies (2 of them!) and held back tears while one of them almost died. I’ve held indescribable relief when he lived. I’ve held questions and sought answers, attended churches and received messages that did not sit right with my soul. I’ve seen counselors and researched old, forgotten wisdoms. I’ve reached for things that weren’t meant for me. I’ve convinced myself we needed a new home and then had to sit in the frustration of remaining in place as that prospect fell through. I’ve drowned in politics and social media, in half-started efforts and self-conscious underminings, while bracing for a year for news as to whether I would maintain my current employment. I’ve abandoned things I desperately needed — writing and yoga and training and music — for the one thing I needed more: sleep.

And yet there, in the background, against the changing seasons and revolving skies, though the walls were crumbling at the edges, my body has stood sentry for me. Maintained patience. Borne witness. A temple in which all the vast inner workings of my life reside. And now it finally feels like the time to rebuild these walls.

I recently learned of a Native American idea that when the first snow falls, any emotions you have not processed will remain with you for winter. I’ve made an attempt to prepare for this over the past few weeks, and thought much about this as I watched the most graceful flurries dance around my home this morning. This snowfall feels like a cleansing. Like a time to center around what I have left behind and instead build a home for what remains. I realized how all this wandering has brought me back.

Yesterday, we guilded our home as we do each Christmas. We hung the stockings along the stairs — five for the people and two for the dogs. We had old friends over for family dinner. We are again expanding the gym. I am again preparing to one day teach yoga classes there. I am again starting a new role. I am again preparing to finish and publish another book. I am again stepping back into publishing.

This season of preparation feels like the closing of a loop; a return to a temple where I once thrived, but this time a little older and a little wiser. I’m very excited to see what the rest of the winter will bring.