My year ends on the solstice.
The days are shorter and shorter now, and I can feel the clock ticking down in my head when I look outside. The trees have finally dropped all their leaves, gnarled branches stark against the dim sky. It feels like time is pressing in against me, an urgency — for what I don’t know — spurring me to GO! DO! before it’s too late.
I’m resisting the urge. This year, I’m sitting with my thoughts.
I opened my email from Gwen Bell the other day, and the topic was frictionless writing.
“…As in: what does the writer have to write about if she’s living a frictionless life…”
I saw my friend for lunch the other day. She asked what was new in my life. After a moment of mental deer-in-the-headlights, all I could come up with was that the baby had found her toes.
Frictionless? I’m fucking teflon.
Sitting. Processing. Reflection.
I can’t remember another time when I was this lucid, this conscious, about what I am doing. The last six years have been a blur of desire for a baby, pain at not having a baby, excitement about the future baby, and exhaustion at the reality of a baby. Rinse, repeat.
Two days ago, I sat down and tried to articulate “at this time next year, what do I want to have accomplished? what do I want my life to look like? how do I want to feel? how do I want people to see me?” and I was actually able to do that in a healthy way.
I am Ebenezer Scrooge, seeing the present, remembering the past, and deciding to change the future.