Post written by Monica Gaylor.
I need, and it’s time, to pack all the old luggage away and put it into the closet with all the old skeletons and hang a big “DO NOT ENTER” sign on the door. Extra dead bolts would help too.
I for one am more than ready to be done with 2011. It was exhausting! It has definitely been a year of evolving for me. I could compare this year to an obstacle course.
In many aspects, I feel I have moved through some bad places into better places; like my surgery. I feel so much better and have much more energy. I even did my first workout 2 days ago. It was a little brutal, but I have high hopes.
In other aspects, I have crossed some lines that will never come back. For example – my eyeglass prescription has become so powerful that I have to take off my glasses in order to see anything up close. I also have started wearing “granny” glasses in many instances in the last few weeks. It is a sad time. 😦 That’s one blurry line.
But, all-in-all, I am looking forward to the new year. For some reason, I always think that the next year will be better than the last. Even though it’s not always so. I think that I continually peck away at my illusions and I become that much closer to being “real” and “authentic” – like the Velveteen Rabbit.
I always have to remind myself that life must be played (or journeyed) with the strategy of “the long game.” Sometimes it’s a walk, sometimes it’s an obstacle course, and sometimes it’s a party.
Emily Dickinson compares house cleaning with the sunset in She Sweeps with Many-Colored Brooms. But for me the metaphor goes further: new years, new paths, new habits, new goals, new ways of viewing the world, new attitudes, new eras, new technologies, new inventions, etc.
She sweeps with many-colored brooms
by Emily Dickinson
She sweeps with many-colored brooms,
And leaves the shreds behind;
Oh, housewife in the evening west,
Come back, and dust the pond!
You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you’ve littered all the East
With duds of emerald!
And still she plies her spotted brooms,
And still the aprons fly,
Till brooms fade softly into stars
And then I come away.