At the end of every gregorian calendar year, I make note of the same thing: I don't really buy into new years. I think the definitive switch from 12 to 1, to ascend from one number to next is precise and tidy enough for most people. More power to you I say. But years ago I switched from counting down to January 1st to leaning into my day of birth as a new start/new year. This isn't innovative by any means, just saying that's what works for me.
I think it felt especially important for many of us to get to the end of 2020. The past 12 months have been unlike any other. I turned 39 in the midst of a pandemic, and even life back in May reads a little naive compared to present day. I remember spending the afternoon on a blanket in the sun, wearing Chris's Onyx tshirt from high school. We were cracking up at our ridiculous Mad Libs and trying to wrap our heads around what the summer ahead might look for us.
December this year stood as the month in which everything caught up with me. Time ran most of us over--every day an anxious game of staying informed but staying sane, which meant stepping away from the onslaught of news and doing things like...standing outside in strange weather, long phone calls with friends where we talked about everything we could think of, or relishing in the simple act of slicing a lemon for my water. The minutes in between moments. But last month the nothing-to-do, nowhere-to-go caught up with me. Maybe it was a combination of having sick family members, being confined to safe places(and oh how these safe places dwindled down into one or two as the months passed). Maybe it was the early christmas we had outside, far apart from one another realizing how loud my laugh sounded behind my mask. Or not being able to remember the last time I hugged my nephew, really truly hugged him. Or the way the death of my father's favorite neighbor shook him. Or how tired I am of seeing my dear friends on a screen and not in person. Or the strange lack of separation between work and home, since now I am at both in the same place. Connections in general are so strange now. Things smushed together that weren't before, right alongside the feeling of being so far apart from others. There are things to be thankful for, certainly. But this month was a dam falling apart.
I also climbed a marvelous hill this fall/winter in finishing my book. I sent it off to the publishers and received great feedback, which I needed. My hands shook sending that sucker off. I worked so damn hard, harder than I thought I was capable of, which brings into question what else I'm wrong about in regards to self. These strange limits I live by that aren't there at all. A lot to think about. I'm working through a bit of writer's hangover now, which means I jumped into another 5 week writing workshop to get started on my next collection. Again, thinking about those self-imposed limitations. If this peculiar year taught me anything, it was: fuck it. Do it now. Do it afraid, do it all. Seize every shred of opportunity and run like hell.
I allowed myself, for a moment, to feel the weight of it(without completely sinking--a tricky balance, mind you). I allowed it, but didn't hold on. There's too much to tend to. I return to the question again and again: what can I do? What do I want? What comes next? What have I convinced myself of in the past that simply isn't true? This new year will see me turning 40, an age I never dreamed of seeing. I'm getting married to my best friend. I will have one book out and another under way. The rest of my wild head will probably finish growing silver. The strands that find the sink's ledge are like fishing wire. I'll keep giving what I have to give. I'll keep getting good sleep. I'll leave all the windows in my chest open. And I will stay tender, as it is the best way to be.
Here's to everything after.
I think it felt especially important for many of us to get to the end of 2020. The past 12 months have been unlike any other. I turned 39 in the midst of a pandemic, and even life back in May reads a little naive compared to present day. I remember spending the afternoon on a blanket in the sun, wearing Chris's Onyx tshirt from high school. We were cracking up at our ridiculous Mad Libs and trying to wrap our heads around what the summer ahead might look for us.
December this year stood as the month in which everything caught up with me. Time ran most of us over--every day an anxious game of staying informed but staying sane, which meant stepping away from the onslaught of news and doing things like...standing outside in strange weather, long phone calls with friends where we talked about everything we could think of, or relishing in the simple act of slicing a lemon for my water. The minutes in between moments. But last month the nothing-to-do, nowhere-to-go caught up with me. Maybe it was a combination of having sick family members, being confined to safe places(and oh how these safe places dwindled down into one or two as the months passed). Maybe it was the early christmas we had outside, far apart from one another realizing how loud my laugh sounded behind my mask. Or not being able to remember the last time I hugged my nephew, really truly hugged him. Or the way the death of my father's favorite neighbor shook him. Or how tired I am of seeing my dear friends on a screen and not in person. Or the strange lack of separation between work and home, since now I am at both in the same place. Connections in general are so strange now. Things smushed together that weren't before, right alongside the feeling of being so far apart from others. There are things to be thankful for, certainly. But this month was a dam falling apart.
I also climbed a marvelous hill this fall/winter in finishing my book. I sent it off to the publishers and received great feedback, which I needed. My hands shook sending that sucker off. I worked so damn hard, harder than I thought I was capable of, which brings into question what else I'm wrong about in regards to self. These strange limits I live by that aren't there at all. A lot to think about. I'm working through a bit of writer's hangover now, which means I jumped into another 5 week writing workshop to get started on my next collection. Again, thinking about those self-imposed limitations. If this peculiar year taught me anything, it was: fuck it. Do it now. Do it afraid, do it all. Seize every shred of opportunity and run like hell.
I allowed myself, for a moment, to feel the weight of it(without completely sinking--a tricky balance, mind you). I allowed it, but didn't hold on. There's too much to tend to. I return to the question again and again: what can I do? What do I want? What comes next? What have I convinced myself of in the past that simply isn't true? This new year will see me turning 40, an age I never dreamed of seeing. I'm getting married to my best friend. I will have one book out and another under way. The rest of my wild head will probably finish growing silver. The strands that find the sink's ledge are like fishing wire. I'll keep giving what I have to give. I'll keep getting good sleep. I'll leave all the windows in my chest open. And I will stay tender, as it is the best way to be.
Here's to everything after.
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