"I hope you realize that every day is a fresh start for you. That every sunrise is a new chapter in your life waiting to be written." ― Juansen Dizon
Rising early on the fourth day of a New Year seems prudent and wise but also a little desperate. I am eager to start a new chapter, to begin again, to write a different story for this stagnant old soul, not with movement, but in the way of growth.
I remember when Nancy and I were kids, my mom would buy us a new coat every other year, so when it was your turn, you knew the coat would be too big until June or July --so it would last. A new year, in this case, felt stiff and ill-fitted even though I tried to wear my oversized finery with pride. It would take a long time before the coat was a good fit, but inevitably, at the end of two years, I had outgrown that garment, and I was ready to slip into something with room to grow. Wasn't my mama brilliant?
After securing a cup of coffee, I unlock the sliding glass doors and step out onto the wet deck. The day is still shrouded in darkness, it's absolutely freezing, but I have a blanket thrown over my shoulders. I'm trying to capture the magic of yet another sunrise with my iPhone (pictured above), and yet I realize I am also trying to do the same with the new year.
The magic of an entire year is now in front of me, rising as quickly as the sun, which gives me the chills, and I step back inside, admiring the view from the other side of the glass doors.
The are moments in life, like New Year's, that remind me that my story is not over, it's just unfinished. Maybe it's all the empty bottles of champagne still abandoned on the counter, or the confetti now embedded in the plush carpet, but I am suddenly aware that 2024 is as if a half-finished journal perched on the mantle, and all I have to do is fill in the blank pages.
Think of the possibilities!
What do I want this year to be about? What do I want to achieve? How will I approach new opportunities? And from those questions, can I possibly conjure an image of the new me who is sure to emerge, like the kid in the oversized coat whose only hope is to accomplish a good fit in the coming year?
No, seriously, I can't even conjure up an image of my current self, the one who ambushed me several years ago and is in desperate need of a new look.
My three granddaughters recently had their hair cut. Audrey and Sienna decided on the normal two-inch trim, but Cora went for a short bob, and for the first time ever, the twins will be walking around with different haircuts.
See, that's what I want. I want this year to be distinctly different from the rest. Not better, just different. Okay, maybe a little better.
Last year was good. I published my first book. Larry retired, and we road in tandem across Japan, Spain, and Portugal, but we also tackled that unexpected dilemma of retirees.
It's sometimes referred to as the suffocation syndrome, or the smothering seniors, more refined people refer to it as spending too much time together.
Larry has discovered things about me that he never knew, and I have learned things about him that I should never know. We are at opposite ends of the spectrum, and at times finding middle ground is impossible without throwing a perfectly good plate across the room. For example, he likes to be active 24/7, I don't. He's social, I'm not, and he's prickly when he doesn't get his way. Who me? Never.
And yet somehow, we've managed to figure out how to allow for these differences and remain living in the same house. I did not say amicably, but we're still attached to the same hitching post. How romantic. There's been a lot of compromise, standing down, or going to our own corners to cool off and recalibrate. I do believe we're building character, maybe a little backbone, all the while breaking down old barriers.
Okay, and a few plates. But we needed new dishes anyway.
Our dear friends Phyllis and Greg came to stay with us at the lake house for the first few days of the new year. Which now, when I think about it, seems symbolic of the year to come. They are a good blend for us, like a fine wine that has been decantered, blessed, and poured out for each other. We spent a lot of time catching up on each other's lives, eating good food, and learning something new.
They taught Larry and me how to play Euchre, a card game, very popular in the Midwest. It's for two to four players, usually played with the thirty-two highest cards, and the aim is to win at least three of the five tricks played. It's simple but requires a little luck, good strategy, and a strong partner, not unlike life itself.
What I noticed right off the bat was my hesitancy to learn something new. It's like slipping into an oversized coat, and I have no idea where my hands are supposed to go. There was this little voice in my head spewing nonsense, "You'll never get it. This is way over your head. You can't even remember which suit is trump." Which I had to silence repeatedly. The thing is, you know there will be times when you'll have no idea what card to play, you'll screw up, and lose a point for your team. But something else happens when you work through all that stuff. Your brain gets fired up, it's fun, and when you finally win a hand, hold onto your coffee because it's exhilarating. Not that Phyllis and I aren't gracious winners, but damn, I forgot how much fun it is to win! (yes, we lost the first round, but we took the second)
When we try new things — a coat, a haircut, a game — we're trying to recast ourselves with a new lifestyle or maybe a new outlook. I don't know why I'm so enamored with beginnings. It's like the feeling I get when I'm drafting a post, spinning the first paragraph so the reader gets a glimpse of what is to come, of all that is possible, and maybe a little humor to keep them reading, but the unwritten message is always the same. It's about the possibility of change. It's about growth. Not just our circumstances but our way of being, our mode of thinking, our ability to harbor and hold hope.
Right?
As Maria Povova says, "No territory of life exposes both our power and our vulnerability more brightly than a beginning."
If these first few days of 2024 were a fabulous preview of what is to come, then I'm all in. Let's get together with our friends, cook deliciously healthy meals, travel when possible, and try new things even if we might fail. Let's lose graciously and allow our fellow travelers to correct their mistakes once in a while, even if it means we might lose a trick. Let's draft this new year as if we were writing a bestseller, and in that first paragraph, cast the entire year with words that banish fear and lift up our dreams.
I read somewhere that our lives are shaped not only by what we choose to let go but also by what we choose to begin, and it doesn't matter how precarious it sounds to anyone else. When I'm standing on the threshold of a new year, slipping into something that is not a good fit --yet, I get to pick and choose the opportunities that I think will not only challenge me but allow me to grow.
And with all that, may our beautiful sun rise to meet us each day, and while I'm trying to capture it all with my iPhone, I'll be whispering to myself, "Thank you, Mama, for the oversized coat because now I know what hope looks like."
I'm Living in the Gap, settling into the new year, lets rant about in the comments.
"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." ― Anais Nin. Take a risk; pick up your copy of Grow Damn It because it's time to shatter the damn pot.
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