Happy New Year! (all of us)
December 31, 2020. The last day of a year that will truly live in infamy.
I was raised with a lot of old mountain sayings that probably could describe it pretty well:
That dog don’t hunt . . .
A rusty ole halo an’ skinny white cloud an’ wings full of patches . . .
Gettin’ your horse in a place where you can’t turn around . . .
A pot so crooked that a lid won’t fit it . . .
Won’t miss it no more than a cold draft after the door’s been shut . . .
What can’t be cured must be endured . . .
Betwixt the devil and the deep blue sea . . .
Out of the fryin’ pan and into the fire . . .
Like tryin’ to herd cats . . .
And one that I wasn’t raised with, but have decided to adopt because it speaks perfectly to the futility of some actions: like tryin’ to pee through six inches of clothes with a three inch penis (by a Mt. Everest climber).
But you know, lots of good memories run through my stream of the year’s memories as well. Times on the porch swing in the soft warmth of fragrant spring and summer mornings. The first fresh garden tomato sandwich. Afternoon teas with my sister. Walking in circles and more circles and feeling myself getting fitter. The sense of safety and comfort in watching absolutely trivial repeats on tv with my husband. Enjoying the animals and the garden and my painting and quilting and all my projects, accomplished or not. Hiking across the hills and smelling hot sun on the cedars. The change of the season . . .
But always, a thread of a different kind of anxiety running through it . . .
For better or worse, it’s (almost) over as I write. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, but nonetheless, my heart is so full of good wishes in this year ahead for you, me, the people I love, the animals and the trees and on and on. The world. You know what they are, and likely wish the same.
May it be so.
