I had a car when this year started.
I had a car and a job and lived in the same state as my dog.
None of those things is true today.
For as much as the where and the what of my life have shifted, the who remains remarkably the same. I’ve spent the last few hours reading the first few dozen posts of the year, and of this series.
In many respects, they were some of the easiest posts to write. They came from the top of the pile of ideas and didn’t require me developing the now-constant habit of asking, “How could I write about that?” as I interacted with the world. They also speak to some of the core pieces of who I am and what I know. I am still a kitchen dancer who believes in the power of silly and understands the scaling power of boredom.
I still have questions for Michelle Rhee and like to listen in. I sit in wonder as I think about Sam and the Diatreme.
I won’t list them all. They’re here for your perusal and mine.
Here, just here, in this space and series I wrote and published around 150,000 words this year. Add to that my writing for classes, and this was my most prolific year linguistically.
As much as I’m looking forward to it, I’m nervous about tomorrow. Will I still write? Will I want to? Will I feel purpose?
The answer to each of these, I hope, is yes. Still, the worry is perched in my brain.
In a year that brought more change to my life than most any I can think of, writing here was a constant. At each day’s close, it was what I did. The rules changed and shifted according to my needs, but I was always committed. In the throes of change, this was something I did.
I’ll miss it.
Reading through the posts, I am sad to leave them here. They are the thoughts I found most worth sharing, and now they will sleep as an archive. I’ll miss the conversations. They’ll stay here for my children to find some day when they go looking to know better who I was, and that makes me happy.
In my first post, I mentioned Robert Fulghum. From boyhood, I’ve admired the dances he choreographs with words. Many of his are words I wish I wrote. While I’m still waiting for his reply to my letter so many years ago, I’d like to think I’ve done something here of which he’d approve. I’ve gone on a journey, an adventure of the every day, and left a map for myself should I ever want to return.
Knowing that makes it all worthwhile.
That’s what I know – for now.