Friday, December 31, 2004

the last day of this year

the sky is an early pink, staining everything around it…the left-over soggy snow, the white clapboard‘s on my neighbor’s garage, as if all of the whites of my view had just been washed, accidentally, with a new red shirt.

the furnace hums, welcoming me back to the Farm where I arrived late last night, after several hours of indecision about whether to come then or wait until morning. The uncertainty was around the “why” of it; it’s always around the “why” of it…did I want to be here last night in case JD appeared at my doorstep, or to just be really alone, now that D is solidly home from college for the next few weeks?

And so, here it is, the last day of this particular year. I am tempted to take inventory. But of what? Charting myself over the last 12 months like the stock market, a bar graph of highs and lows, a report of personal profit and loss? If I were a numbers kind-of-gal, if I were the kind of person who could lay out units of experience, fitting each one into its own little box until the Table of Elements was complete, then I would undoubtedly see that this year has been one of significant learning: learning to be alone (with several notable exceptions), learning to trust my writers voice and eye, learning to put it down, and learning to take the first tentative steps towards making this explication the central tenet of my life.


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