2016 will be different.
2016 will be different.
It’s the first day of the first month of the new year. Apparently, I’m supposed to be changing myself.
I have issues with myself, certainly. Who doesn’t? I’m on the wrong side of my 30s for my personal preference. There are more grey hairs showing their silvery faces each time my roots grow out. My belly is a bit more round than I would prefer. I wake up with creases in my face that aren’t from the pillows – and don’t fade away as I drink my coffee. I play too many video games and read too few books.
I don’t feel that I need a whole new me just because a page on a calendar turns. Self-improvement has no set schedule other than the one you make yourself. You (general you, not you personally, kind soul reading this) know what will and what won’t work in your life.
I can say “this is the year I run a marathon!” until I’m blue in the face, but considering how much I dislike running, jogging, or moving quickly in general, this is not a thing that will happen. However, I do know that making my life a bit more fitness-inclined may not necessarily be a horrible thing, so I can adjust priorities that way. Marathon? Not so much. Trundling along with a newbie 5k program? Probably much more in the realm of reality.
And so it is with life in general. If you see a mountain you want to climb (again, figuratively – unless you really want to climb a mountain, then get down with your bad mountain-climbing self), you don’t buy your fancy shoes and start straight for the peak. You train. You practice. You conquer foothills and relish every tiny victory on the trip up the hillside. If you stumble, it’s much easier to pick yourself up after a short skid than a long fall.
2015 is just another mountain, and every day is just another inch up a hill. Some will be smooth, others will be rocky. I’m sure more than one will toss me down and kick me around a bit.
But it’s my journey. And I don’t need a new ‘me’ to do it. I’m fine with the one I have.
11 July 2014 at 12:35AM PDT is the 12th anniversary of my father’s death.
I try to make it a point to stay up, a Memento Mori for the man who shaped my life, in ways good and bad. I tend to stay up to see the clock tick past the moment more often than I go to his grave in the following 24 hours.
Night owls, he and I.
It is from him that I learned the bad habit of staying up far too late, reading until I drift to sleep anywhere but in bed.
He nurtured my love of the wild, untamed mountains that edge my home state. Of the trees reaching impossibly high into the star-filled nights, the sound of crickets in my ears and the smell of bear grass in my nose.
He gifted my sharp tongue, my love of horrible puns, my slow to simmer but quick to boil temper.
He told me to find my stories, to craft them carefully. Even if they were just for me.
I miss him terribly.
You think about a lot of things when your heart is pounding at 234 beats per minute.
For no reason.
For half an hour straight.
I thought about my daughter. I thought about my husband. I thought about my cats. I thought about my friends.
I was strapped in the back of an ambulance, trying not to absolutely lose my shit as it took three tries toset up an IV, three tries of increasing dosage of Adenosine to slow my pulse to something less deadly.
I wondered if the last thing I would see would be the bags of saline, set up for easy grabbing by the EMTs. Continue reading
Coming out of a dark time of depression is a bit like the start of Spring.
There are still storm clouds on the horizon from time to time. A cold snap sends you burrowing back down under blankets, wanting to squeeze your eyes closed in your dark burrow beneath until everything is safe again. Continue reading