On Hosting Uncertainty
Winter has its own rhythm. A season of rest, of not knowing, of staying. I am learning to host uncertainty instead of controlling it.
Since our return from Sri Lanka, time has not stood still.
The scenery has changed, beachlines replaced by the rough north face of the Eiger. The sky bluer. The sun glancing over the peak like a sheepish, nosy child. The valley veiled in shadow, melting snow carving dark stitches into the white blanket. The temperatures too warm for this season.
In fast steps, almost in a hurry, I walk down towards the river. For a fleeting moment, I am pulled from my thoughts by the sound of flowing water, its gentle streams guiding me into the present.
My eyes pause on naked trees, silent in their dormancy. Below, tiny waves slip through icy stones and wash over the grip of uncertainty, resisting, dancing, letting go.
In my head, I travel back to the past weeks, where I had been blossoming in the act of being a guest, spoiled with curiosities and good food. An identity I love to wear, that of being a traveller.
Now I hang that part of me in my locker and slip back into my uniform, the golden name tag neatly pinned to my black long-sleeved shirt, my curls tucked back. Back into the familiar role of hosting.
The questions I had recently answered are now the ones I ask.
Where are you from?
How were your travels?
Is it your first time here?
The words come naturally. The smile is genuine. And yet, I am caught by the feeling that I am performing in the wrong play, repeating lines I know too well, too fluently.
Back at home, I fall asleep quickly, only to be woken by vivid dreams in the middle of the night, as if they host the uncertainty I refuse to hold during the day.
On New Year’s, I feel entangled in social ideas and expectations, cultural practices I don’t fully care about, and yet do, because culture lives deeply inside us.
Sending Merry Christmas or Happy New Year messages to loved ones reminds me how far away I am from them. How much I miss them. Loneliness wraps itself around the quiet tension of what stays and what you outgrow.
As I rehearse resolutions and lists in my head, I stop myself like a mouse sensing the trap just in time.
It’s been a challenging year, but it’s not yet time for new beginnings. This is the season of rest. Of acceptance, processing, reflection, sleep, and recovery.
My nervous system, overstimulated, longs for calm and kindness.
It takes time to shed the old, to release what no longer serves, and to be reborn, like flowers that wait patiently for spring.
As I watch a bird flap its wings and vanish into the heights, I try to glimpse the future, once again grasping for the next identity too quickly, eager to escape the discomfort of not knowing.
My uncertainty feels like an uninvited guest.
A guest you care for, but can’t spend too much time with.
A friend you enjoy travelling with but wouldn’t want to live with.
For as long as I can remember, I have kept uncertainty at a distance, close enough to feel meaningful, far enough to avoid real vulnerability. I thought I hosted it with grace. Instead, I dressed it as big dreams meant to fulfil themselves one day, if only the right moment came.
Searching for belonging, like a butterfly that forgets that the journey itself is the goal.
I welcomed uncertainty in the language of progress, in the illusion of control.
The cost is high. I wake in the night, distracted and restless, paying for it in energy and rest.
Is this simply what life is?
A constant push and pull?
Confusion?
Life, it seems, has its own way of unfolding.
On the first full-moon night of the year, I walk towards the river. The temperatures have dropped. Ice cracks softly beneath my slow winter boots. The valley, usually swallowed by darkness, now soaks in moonlight.
A fox crosses my path, gliding over snow-covered meadows towards the tree-lined riverbank, vanishing into the dark.
This time, I don’t try to glimpse the future.
IN RELATIONSHIP WITH
My body
After travel and long working days, I am slowly returning to my body. Movement, still tender, sometimes only five minutes. Not intensity yet, but consistency, sometimes simply showing up.
Silence
Recently, I have been walking in silence. No music, no podcasts, only the sounds of the land and my own thoughts.
Sleep
I am prioritising sleep, even on days I feel I should be doing more. I am listening to what my body is asking for, learning to do so without guilt.
Thank you for reading. If you feel like responding, I’d love to hear from you. Take good care.
With love,
Zaza
