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A Ripple in Time
No fireworks, just quiet. Packing away festivities, breathing, and gentleness. A day for simplicity and reflection.
It is the second day of January. No fireworks to announce it grandly, no calendar bursting at the seams. A day that, if I’m not careful, quietly folds itself into the fabric of my existence. But if I linger just a little, I notice how this day breathes softly.
Yesterday was a day of grandeur. Today feels like the silent afterglow. The remnants of the holidays are still scattered around, as if the house itself needs a moment to recover. The Christmas tree, now a little dazed, looks at me with a glance that seems to ask, “When is it my turn?” And I know: today. Or tomorrow. But probably today.
January second is a day of nothing and everything. No grand promises anymore, just small, deliberate movements. It’s the day I pack up the festivities, gently lull the garlands to sleep, and carefully brush the glitter from my carpet. It’s also the day I — perhaps without realizing it — create space. For simplicity, for quiet, for whatever lies ahead.
And it is precisely this simplicity that makes the day so beautiful. January second demands nothing and therefore becomes everything. No obligations, no rush. Today, I can wake up slowly, brew a cup of coffee, and…
