Auguri di buon anno. August always felt like a new year for me. maybe because I associate living and dying with the sweltering that is a Georgia summer. August has always felt like my New Years, full of upheaval and change and the rapid stringing together of events. January is my turnaround, my spin. It feels like a new door, ianus, just a few months after beginning to plough again (tell me school is no harvest, and I will laugh for you: harvests do come). January is cold, ice and snow and the sky that I take for granted sometimes. It’s after the rememberum that is December, the mulling of the advent Story like hot cider being pressed. It’s when the stories begin to glisten again, and maybe that’s why I love to write on New Year’s Eve. the anticipation to the count, the sacrificing of irritations for delight (hopefully), and the moments hanging above before they come spiraling down like a glittering globe of fireflies and songs.
January is my door. I like to look through it before I start walking. Something I tell myself when I build expectations is to never bank on the second semester being easier. Change does not equivocate easy in any shopping center. I’m pulling out of my August haze, though, to grasp at this thought.
The forests are green and swaying, full of spanish moss, sycamores and pines. I have a thousand trees I love to dash to from my perch, full of excitement and energy. It’s a maze, a race, and an obstacle course perfect for a sprinter. I’ve imagined this story a thousand times, and it is full of splender-web bridges, jumps and leaps across layers and over gaps until your feet, shod or not, hit traction and you can fly again with adventure for wings. I played it while flying on a swing, or when the ice and snow came, all in my thoughts.
Through all the chasing and falling to be saved and laughing, He has built my bridges. Now I live in a cityscape, but there are still bridges and lights to chase. Still, when I forget something like water and I’m running in circles, He’ll carry me. I know that. What I want to remember what keeps the wood and ropes, the glass and concrete solid as the hours are spent.
Ha ha! to the old year
Goodbye to the cold fear
Gonna cry when I need it, smile when I need it
[Photo by Dan Taylor on Flickr.]