Seasons of the Spirit

Journal Entry: Bipolar Seasons of the Spirit

Mornings feel like unwrapped gifts, brimming with possibility. I wake up light as a snowflake, happy for no reason other than the fact that I’m here, that there’s coffee to brew, birds to hear, and thoughts to chase like kids in the snow. The world feels open—like the start of a holiday parade, where everything sparkles with anticipation. I’m a child on Christmas morning, giddy for what the day might bring.  

But by night, the spirit shifts. The lights dim, the cheer fades, and a deep seriousness settles in, heavy as the weight of a snowdrift. I think about everything I could have done better, the gifts I haven’t given, the kindnesses I forgot to show. Regret visits like a ghost of holidays past, whispering reminders of the things I failed to wrap neatly. The joy of the morning seems so far away, like a faint star in a vast winter sky.  

I apologize to everyone, to everything, to the whole of my existence. Sorry for not always being able to keep that morning magic alive. Sorry for my moments of selfishness, for my silences when I should have spoken, and for speaking when silence was needed.  

But even in my seriousness, there’s love. The kind that feels like sitting by a fire after a long, cold day. I want to wrap everyone in that warmth and whisper, "To all a good night." Because even if I wrestle with my own fleeting seasons—happy in the morning, somber at night—I know they’re both pieces of the same gift.  

Tomorrow, there’ll be another morning, another chance to unwrap joy. But tonight, I close my eyes and let the weight of the day settle, soft and still, like snow blanketing the earth.