One month. One month until the little blue book that is the story of the dress releases into the wild. And I could not be more excited.
A week ago, I stood in front of a group of Trevecca students and talked about the project and the book and all the things in between. I held the bound pages in my hands, read aloud the words that Susanna and I agonized over. But even then, I couldn’t really believe it.
March first closes in and yet life carries on, every bit as beautiful and monotonous as ever. Book talk days are also laundry days and homework days and Craigslist deal days and cooking days and reading days.
With the release looming, I feel like I should be kicking into high gear, writing things and doing things and running around making sure that everybody knows that the book is coming and they can buy it. (By the way, have I mentioned that it's up for preorder?)
And I am doing some of those things, writing a few guests posts and getting ready for a couple of interviews. But the day-in and day-out of this season is slow—slower than I expected. There are moments when I wish for a little more excitement, but as I’m settling back into life at school, I’m learning to see how rich the quiet can be.
When I rush, I feel fragmented, like I’m leaving pieces of myself all over the place. The rhythms of these days are putting me back together again, teaching me what it is to become whole. Yoga and bedtime routines and cooking and reading and homework and class and coffee dates and bright yellow tea kettles, all of it so ordinary and yet so beautiful.
I get lost in my own life sometimes, wanting everything except the moments in front of me. Somehow, in this big, wonderful world, I get bored. I scroll through miles of social media posts, always on the lookout for something new. Something fancy. Something to shake me from my apathy.
In all the mess and the noise, I forget to open my eyes and see the things around me.
Perhaps that is the greatest gift of this change of place, eyes open to see the goodness that feels so new. These days are different, yes. There is a book coming into the world that has shaped me in ways I can’t even begin to explain, and I’m so excited for you to read it.
But in the midst of all of that, I’m doing my very best to pay attention to the gifts these days are full of. Not just the big, obvious ones, but the little ones. Snippets of Wendell Berry poetry on my desk, dancing in the kitchen, the relief of a made bed and a folded basket of laundry.
I’m trying to listen to the things that make me come alive, learning to be present to this life I’ve been given. I’m not very good at it, but I want to get better, to see these days as meaningful not because they offer important things, but because they are.
So here we are, a month away. And I suppose what I really want to say is that I don’t have much to say right now. These days seem unremarkable. But I am so grateful for them, for four more quiet weeks of sinking into my place before this story finds its way into your hands.
And I hope this little book sparks a few conversations about the places God has called each of us. Because sometimes they are big and dramatic places (see: wearing a dress for a year), but sometimes they are places of quiet faithfulness, places that seem mundane.
May we learn to see the beauty in both.