Already we are midway through the month and I've not had any particular urge to write about the new year. It should be well enough established by now that I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions (TM pending).
There is only this: the sun in the sky, high above my bedroom window; a gradually diminishing set of boxes and objects for me to purge or deal with; a growing desire to write more, again, about something new, but with the clear, rested eyes I'd needed to return to the older work and whip it into the shape I'd meant it to be.
My heart is open and I'm managing to keep my head up and remembering to look around, look up, to breathe. I take my cues from the birds in the trees. I'm knitting again. I still don't know how to make hats, or gloves, or socks, but I'll get there. I'm picking up my guitar again. I'm finding my voice again. I'm making art.
I am still uncertain of many things, but grow more comfortable with the uncertainty. I am ruled more and more by simple joys and my own will and less frequently by fear. There is only this. This moment. This curiosity. This opportunity.
I laugh more often than I cry and when I cry, sometimes it is because something beautiful has welled up in me and I have no means of containing it. This is progress.