It’s that time again, the annual October new year’s declaration. This past year was the year “to be,” and in retrospect could have just as easily been declared so many other things: the year of time out, the year of magical living, the year of impossible things. It was, in nearly every sense, a year off the map. Suddenly, surprisingly, living in the farmhouse, the dream house, and having no idea of what would come next, it became the year to not figure out what might be next. The year to mess things up, to sort things out, to start all over; to deconstruct, and to reconstruct, and to hide out under the radar. To live in the moment, to live days on end on the front porch, to not follow exactly all of the rules, all of the time. It was the year to make a little space, to not feel guilt, and despite having no such intentions, I feel like I’m coming out of it all a new person. There’s a little something extra inside: new interests, passions, and strengths, a more solid grasp of who I might be, a little less thought or care as to what people might think.

There are some questions I’m answering differently now, and for some things a new way of thinking. For every time out, though, there is the time to jump back in: and so, this year is the year to Make Things Happen.

(Today is the first day of heat, piling out of vents with that strange, dusty, scorched-hot scent. There is one tree out the window turning yellow just around the edges; happy birthday to me.)