I've had a full house. It has been a tight squeeze in my Brooklyn apartment, between all of the happy faces that were moving back and forth between the kitchen and living room, spilling into the backyard for a few deep breaths of crisp winter air, knees touching on the couch.
And after the voices and the glitter and the slow mornings followed by fast evenings, we're back in a routine that somewhat resembles the daily life of a bunch of... girls... living in Brooklyn in their 20s. So really, not much has changed - we still have the occasional full house, exchanging exhausted "heys" and flustered "see you tonight" comments in the hallway, copious amounts of glitter on the floor that WILL NOT GO AWAY and the fridge is suspiciously empty of food, but the sink is always full of dishes which is just confusing. I'm convinced someone is playing a joke on me.
The new year came quickly, unbelievable quickly. So much can happen, did happen, in a year.
The resolves aren't the same as last year, but my life isn't what it was a year ago.
(And if you are looking for an amusing, insightful, touching article on new year resolutions, click here).
Either way, 365 days make remembering everything that happened in the past year really difficult.
I'll tell you what I do know (which is all I can do anyways):
Last year was many things. It was a dance, and it was a story made of many. There were many characters (so many, I lose track). There were blinding lights and foggy thoughts, rampant emotions and lots of cheese. Last year was loss, and tears and some obviously inexplicable faith. Last year was phone calls and letters that stopped me in my tracks, and made me shake uncontrollably. Implosion seemed likely and just because it didn't happen doesn't mean it isn't possible.
Last year was the relentless effort to pay attention, to respect, to love.
Last year was many hands, for high fives and handshakes and support.
Last year had chapters of seemingly convoluted pages, and there are recounts of long runs with shoelaces coming undone, last year gasped for air. Last year had waiting rooms and coffee houses, hospital rooms and youtube videos. And there were coloring pencils and hair fascinators, too. Last year was full of goodness, of keeping the laughter, keeping the strength, keeping the lights on.
Last year was the accumulation of things, of all the things. Last year was about letting go, too.
Last year was a story that left me with lingering concerns about lasting impressions.
Because last year made me think about the world beneath our feet, about giving and taking, lines drawn and lines crossed.
Last year's storyline was a process of taking two steps forward, one (or two or three or four steps) back and I often doubted the story but mostly, I doubted the storyteller.
But last year's story includes thankfulness for the process, and the meaningful practicality of a book of stamps my mother sent in the mail. Last year sought and found some sort of forgiveness among its painful character development, interconnected underlying themes, and thick plot line.
Here's to the New Year.
And after the voices and the glitter and the slow mornings followed by fast evenings, we're back in a routine that somewhat resembles the daily life of a bunch of... girls... living in Brooklyn in their 20s. So really, not much has changed - we still have the occasional full house, exchanging exhausted "heys" and flustered "see you tonight" comments in the hallway, copious amounts of glitter on the floor that WILL NOT GO AWAY and the fridge is suspiciously empty of food, but the sink is always full of dishes which is just confusing. I'm convinced someone is playing a joke on me.
The new year came quickly, unbelievable quickly. So much can happen, did happen, in a year.
The resolves aren't the same as last year, but my life isn't what it was a year ago.
(And if you are looking for an amusing, insightful, touching article on new year resolutions, click here).
Either way, 365 days make remembering everything that happened in the past year really difficult.
I'll tell you what I do know (which is all I can do anyways):
Last year was many things. It was a dance, and it was a story made of many. There were many characters (so many, I lose track). There were blinding lights and foggy thoughts, rampant emotions and lots of cheese. Last year was loss, and tears and some obviously inexplicable faith. Last year was phone calls and letters that stopped me in my tracks, and made me shake uncontrollably. Implosion seemed likely and just because it didn't happen doesn't mean it isn't possible.
Last year was the relentless effort to pay attention, to respect, to love.
Last year was many hands, for high fives and handshakes and support.
Last year had chapters of seemingly convoluted pages, and there are recounts of long runs with shoelaces coming undone, last year gasped for air. Last year had waiting rooms and coffee houses, hospital rooms and youtube videos. And there were coloring pencils and hair fascinators, too. Last year was full of goodness, of keeping the laughter, keeping the strength, keeping the lights on.
Last year was the accumulation of things, of all the things. Last year was about letting go, too.
Last year was a story that left me with lingering concerns about lasting impressions.
Because last year made me think about the world beneath our feet, about giving and taking, lines drawn and lines crossed.
Last year's storyline was a process of taking two steps forward, one (or two or three or four steps) back and I often doubted the story but mostly, I doubted the storyteller.
But last year's story includes thankfulness for the process, and the meaningful practicality of a book of stamps my mother sent in the mail. Last year sought and found some sort of forgiveness among its painful character development, interconnected underlying themes, and thick plot line.
Here's to the New Year.
