I'm Ready for Hibernation

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At the gas station where you stop, are there video monitors on the pumps that tell you what to buy? And what to watch? Ads on the backs of your receipts, and now even in the middle of NPR programming?

Do you get notifications on your phone or watch that make everything feel frantic and urgent? Is your mailbox full of campaigns and products trying to get your attention? Is your own head full of voices and prompts that aren't your own, masking that soul of yours that's always there?

Me too. And the end of the year, my tolerance for all of it starts to wear thin. I feel the need for hibernation almost like a hunger, something I need to address before my blood sugar drops and I can't go on anymore. I wrote this poem yesterday in a moment like that, and some of it's on the chalkboard wall in my office, too. As Jane Kenyon says, "Let evening come." I'm ready.

I'm Leaving Now

Hibernation is a survival skill.
Let it get dark.
Let it get quiet.

Let yourself be missed,
misunderstood,
disappeared.

Whatever energy is left,
save it for yourself,
for a long, lumbering sleep

that lets you return to the world
lean, hungry,
and awake.