2014 started with storms — snow angels in the nearby park, ice floes on the Hudson escaping the city, snowshoeing and sledding in northern parts.
It seems like there was a lot of death this year, big heaving tears and, somewhere in there, reinforcement of the belief that, truly, we humans are at the core beatific. An unhinged time in early summer of traveling every weekend. Weddings and graduations and funerals. Sunshine and very long drives and unpacked bags and digging for the right dress giving way to growing plants, open windows, rooting.
Fall rolling in consumed by yoga teacher training and being pregnant, a combo that took up pretty much everything, but in the best possible way. Protests. The tug of change and revolution.
2014 ended with holidays at home, more walks in the woods than usual, listening intently to the quiet. 2014 ended on my couch in Brooklyn with good food and warm slippers, fat and happy with soon-to-be-baby turning somersaults in utero because I ate too much sugar. Ended as it always does, with pangs of anxiety at the 10-second countdown, like there was more I meant to do, like I didn’t reflect enough or fit the jigsaw piece of that year properly into all the rest. So here I am, two days later, noting the steady march of loss and life, whirlwinds and quiet, picking through the things I loved in that year and the things that I learned. Remembering that I can do it a day or too late, resolving in the new year to believe that it’s never too late.
Looking forward to all that the next year holds.