I ran two miles today. It’s not that far, but I’m proud of myself because it’s been awhile since I’ve gone out. I’ve mostly been walking.

I think the thing that running teaches you is that no matter what distance you cover, the effort dissipates overnight, and the next day you are back to building up the distance you’ve lost.

It’s truly a Sisyphean activity.

But then this amazing thing happens – a few days or a week go by and you notice you feel better – your rear end is tighter and your thighs feel stronger.

It’s as if your body is saying, just be patient and the benefits will eventually catch up with you.

But mostly running builds mental fortitude in me. And it gets my creative juices flowing.

When I plod through the neighborhood, my mind is usually casting about for new ideas.

It’s poking around for something to look forward to, or just some little thing to get excited about.

It seems I have to do this in January.

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This weekend, my husband and I drove down to the North Carolina coast. We were on a mission to scope out the perfect beach house for our yearly family get-together.

The landscape was a bit depressing.

We passed acre after acre of forgotten farmland, weathered farmhouses, and tiny, tottering shacks. There were rows of limp, muddy collards in the fields, and some rickety vegetable stands.

Tractors were stalled indefinitely in the deeply flooded trenches.

There were no people about – the only traces of life were farm tools and the children’s toys that lay abandoned in the front yards – and the Christmas lights that were still strung.

And I think, these people know patience and planning more than anyone. Because they, too, are fervently looking to the future.

Anyway, down the road, I noticed an entire field full of crows strutting about. With their jaunty heads cocked, they nimbly gleaned the leftovers from the past season.

And that is me, I’m looking to snatch up the one shiny thing or new idea that might kick-start my year.

Are you the same?

We look back on the past year and decide what can be dismissed. We sift through old activities and events – to see what to let go of, and what to expand upon.

We plan what new crops to grow.

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Anyway, my husband and I finally met up with the realtor and we chat for a bit. She tells us that she loves this time of year – and I get it. No tourists like us.

But as she talks, my mind is already on fast forward:

I listen to the gentle waves of the October tide, and I picture my son napping under the beach umbrella.

I imagine my grandson, digging in the sand with his shovel, or maybe in the pool, kicking his little froggy legs.

I see a glass of white wine, sipped on our private deck. My eyes are closed, but I’m aware of my family all around me, making noise two floors below.

I watch the apricot moon dip into the water and disappear.

I am a lucky woman, this I know.

But in January, if often takes some imagination to see it that way, to see the coming year in full. To look ahead and believe.

To take the dry pits and plant them.

The sky is puffed grey, pregnant with the possibility of snowfall.

On my walk, all around me, there is a sense of pause, of waiting.

The dogs in the yards are silent, waiting for me to pass.

Neighbors venture out, stepping carefully to avoid the slippery rime that has coated the black places on the road.

They wait for the forecast and the possibility of time off from work.

The children wait with their sleds, as they practice on the dry, grassy hill.

Even the birds are silent, waiting for the storm to pass.

And when I look up at the sky there is a blankness, with no mood or transience. Only a dull sameness.

The grey threatens to blanket my mood, too.

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When my son was home, over the holidays, we went for a walk on a trail in Hillsborough. We were casually birdwatching and he showed me an app on his phone that helps identify bird species by their calls.

This particular day, there was a cacophony of birdsong – it was so loud I couldn’t differentiate a single bird. But that was the beauty of it – the phone could pick out one solo voice and identify it.

It was a dream for me, a person who gets overwhelmed with sounds. But I came away thinking of all the individual species that cross our ears, that we never identify. They are everywhere, thousands of varieties.

I think about this on my walk today, how easy and even necessary it is to sometimes block out the beautiful things in life. How easy it is to succumb to the vast grey, when there is something beautiful that can’t be heard.

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For me, January is a month of waiting.

Waiting for the year’s schedule to flesh out.

Waiting to plant a garden, after the ice clears.

Waiting for the start of a home renovation.

Waiting for positivity and purpose.

Waiting in anticipation of what new things I can create this year. I don’t want to stagnate, I want to keep creating – to keep writing.

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Life is about waiting, it just is.

And somewhere between the question and the answer is everyday life. As grey and dull and unremarkable as today, sometimes.

But today, it doesn’t bother me so much. I can pull the one birdsong from the sky.

I feel hope.

And now heading home, I am careful of the black ice on the sidewalk that could easily upend me.

A bird titters loudly in the frozen branches. I can’t see it, but it is so clear, so dissonant, that it pierces my thoughts.

The sky has darkened, and still the mood comes back to me, like a birdsong:

What will be? What will be? What will be?