"Here is the start of a new year, a new decade." That means nothing. To me, life is a continuous line, bending and twisting like a river with no rigid segments called 'years.' Perhaps the analogy of each year being like a book or a chapter is the best comparison, but not everyone writes a clear beginning or end at the tail-ends of a year. Who begins a chapter with "I made oatmeal for breakfast this morning" and ends the book with "I did dishes two minutes before midnight?" It all matters; every minute, every bowl of oatmeal and every song you skip on Spotify.
What I accomplished in 2019 was no better or worse than 2018 - simply new life events with the same feelings mixed around in a different order. The biggest change was starting an English teaching job which, surprisingly, I still have in 2020. I have the same goals this year as I did one day ago. However, I upped the ante on one goal - read 35 books this year instead of my successfully completed 30 books. As usual, I'm striving and struggling to write more. But here I am - day one of this new chapter, day one around a new bend in this continuous river, and I have one blog entry underway. Remind me to keep it up, okay? We all need that support system to push us to do what we love when we struggle to set our minds to it. Take today for instance. I pushed myself to get on a coat, walk outside, and hike 7km in the beautiful Ticknock mountains. I suppose the new year is a gush in the river to kickstart us again. So enough about new years and new chapters because that's cliche. Here's a poem from home:
Fall
She's shedding her skin and slipping into the salt
wound elixir.
Her palms float and swirl until they get carried away.
It's a seasonal chemical reaction.
Water captures her reflection
and watches her fade into the blue sky.
Rusty red kisses smother the riverside trail
and lilac purples burst from the seams of bushes -
Everyone captures these final moments of blooming fireworks
before the cold.
Inside puddles, oceans, gutters and ponds
the months ebb and flow.
Winter
December's signature scratched Red Cedar Lake
like it was meant to be broken
and smashed
but the delicate cracks
are silver livings
that will melt away in April's thaw.
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