It's January 4, 2016, small hours of the morning. I remember that I ended 2014 with this quotation:
"You are not dead, although you were dead. The girl who died. And was resurrected. Children. Witches. Magic. Symbols. Remember the illogic of the fantasy. The strange tableau in the closet behind the bathroom: the feast, the beast, and the jelly-bean. Recall, remember: please do not die again. Let there be continuity at least--a core of consistency . . . The synthesis is the consummate problem." - S.P., Journals, 154
I was concerned that I continue to exist as one person, a through-thread--and that I continue to make things. Two kinds of synthesis. I think I managed to. 2015 was, no question, a year of growth and increasing self-knowledge, a year of working more confidently and steadily than I ever have, a year of feeling (dare I say) cosmically upheld in what I wanted and what I was doing. I wrote poems and stories I am immensely proud of, compiled a poetry manuscript, applied for two arts grants, and made three films. I wrote and defended my thesis. I started working as a freelance writer. Every time I ran out of money, a cheque appeared in the mail. Every time I felt I had been left alone to juggle five courses, a bullying boss, a relationship which at times I could not navigate with grace, someone was around to listen and help.
I have a long list of resolutions or goals or intentions or whatever, all written up on sticky notes and posted grid-wise on the bedroom wall in this new apartment. I suspect most of them will be made manifest--if not this year, then another year. But I was reminded today that the benevolence I've experienced over the past 12 months is not an anomaly or a freak accident. It's not the universe smiling on the wrong, the unworthy person. I am almost 25 and still surprised by friendship, but that does not mean that compassion, forgiveness, and empathy are not modes in which people can live their lives.
Here's to recognizing that, hey? Thank you and have a beautiful year.