Strange how you never do the cumulative reckoning for a years worth of activity until the very last day thereof.
But, hasnít this been a year for the books.
I donít remember any year when all of the emotion of life has caught up to me in such a fashion. The children growing older, the way they perceive life and how it vacillates up and down for them, and the shaking of heads as they grope through it. The soundings of time on what my wife and I hold, the balance of how that is coming about. Uncertainty, fear. Friends falling in and out of my life, some dying, some moving on.
Sitting with all of you on a warm day in September watching life end by the hands of others. The hitching of voices on an end of summer day, the deep and abiding draught of air I pulled in to try to steady a world reeling around me.
Finding love and better moments on better days. Going to a city new to these eyes and sharing music and passion for it. Going to events that made me better for the going. So many, many days which pass before us with the chance for, what? Enlightenment? Pleasure?
I donít have words to roll up a year like so much carpet, ready to tuck away and put into storage.
Being here, with other writers, with you. Iíd have never thought it possible when I pulled into this year. It soothes and layers me with the goodness of creating and gives much happiness to the eyes, reading what you have to say. And how you say it.
Iíd predict that it could only get better.
previous - next
0 comments so far