There's so much I've managed to not say here over the past few weeks. I've started and stopped my Retrospectively Introspective New Year's post like seven times so far. The long and short of it was that everything I had dreaded on New Year's Eve 2012 hadn't even crossed my mind on New Year's Eve of 2013 until I went and read the former year's post, because (I think) I have finally chosen to walk towards something rather than run from something. The running sure did make my butt look great, but it wasn't so great on the person I was. My butt looks like shit now, but I'm a better person. I am unafraid. I am happy. I am so stupidly in love. I am so stupidly loved in return. I feel like an adult. The end.
Speaking of feeling like an adult, I got halfway through the 22nd anniversary of the last day I would be my mother's daughter/the first day of the rest of my life before I decided that 21 years had been exactly long enough for me to helicopter-parenting myself, and I just didn't need to check in with me anymore. I am past the drinking age, and have gotten most of my rebellious shenanigans out of my own system. I'm ready to wear sensible foundation garments and have a job to get up for in the morning, you know? It was what it was. I had a mother, I lost her on January 9th, and that was partly my own doing. Bygones and shit, yo.
I didn't write that post, for the first time in the nine years and two days I've been writing this blog.
I just now realized I missed my blog's 9th anniversary. On January 19th, I was staring out over the edge of the world, teaching little girls how to jump over the endlessness of eternity, gently lapping at their ankles, and teaching not so little boys how to make good sand balls and how get seagulls to actually eat the alka-seltzer. (They didn't.) (Yet.) It was lovely. I can't think of a single better way to ring in the birth of the thing that I couldn't have known would eventually lead me to this life on this coast with these people -- even if it was a completely unintentional celebration.
Every January, I mark my own death and subsequent rebirth. I mark beginnings, I mark ends. I used to wallow in the ending and dread the beginning, and now I am in this new space where I can see them both right there in front of me, I can regard them, I can even be grateful for them, but I don't need them to hold me up anymore. I have new bookends in the story of my life; arms wrapped around me, binding the pages of my life together into something that makes sense, has an arc, and resolves.