A new year is under way all things that 2020 was. Are we ready to let it go? Or are we still clinging to our wounds?



Everything about my picture is 2020. Pictures at my table instead of on stage. Spectacles. Showing the world my frown.

Does it matter why? Does my perfect 20/20 vision in the last 40 years count? Especially when it didn’t give me actual foresight? Do the mistakes count? Yes, they do. Then so should the punishments, the regrets, the pain. And equally, the lessons, the luck, the reprieves, the rescues. It all counts.

And it’s too heavy to carry.

There is something to be said for a mid-life crisis coinciding with a global pandemic. It has a way of forcing you to stay on the true & clear. It’s impossible to ignore.

At 41, I begin again.

Re-examining the assumptions of love I’ve collected before jumping into another. Filing away tax returns & old certificates with care, then closing the files. Needing help to read, putting on the unfamiliar spectacles with a sigh & being thankful for sight, even if with help. Coping with rude 20-somethings trampling over me in their haste. Planning for a medical procedure so I can breathe better. Calling daily health routines, self-care. Not knowing the future. Learning to breathe despite that. Breathing easy. Laughing. Finding no comfort in achievement. Finding intimacy in places I never thought to look before. Awkwardly, unfamiliarly but truly.

Every day is a lesson. This year has been a masterclass. Even for an obsessive learner such as myself, it’s overwhelming. The only thing to do, is to keep breathing.

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