Calligraphy by Kelsey Malie
I’m seeing a lot of “2016 Wrap Ups” in the creative community right now – everyone choosing their favorite images or projects from the year…projecting next year’s goals and recalling favorite moments from 365 days too quickly gone by. I see a lot of joy and excitement and I think it is lovely. I found myself writing similar things last year.
However, I don’t really want to do that now…because 2016 was painful for me and I would feel I was fabricating a little too much.
I am very uncomfortable writing that, because I actually worry a lot of that giving away even that little part of myself may not be safe for public spaces. But I do think, if even one person reads this who is also struggling…maybe they will feel less alone. I don’t pretend to have the sort of magical unicorn influence to energize you for next year, but I can at least say, that I know none of us are actually alone (even when it feels that way).
Winter is a covering. It allows a time for rest and reflection…the soil heals and moves beneath the layers of frost and snow in preparation for whatever Spring may bring. It can be a bitterly cold time that makes your bones feel hollow and long for warmth again. But it’s a season, like all the others, and therefore necessary.
Spring is on the way, bringing all the colors and fragrances back to us…so, how can we not have just a wee bit of hope? Accomplishments? Game-Plans? Diets? Hustle? Goals? I am too tired friends.
Yet I will always hold onto hope in anticipation of the life that spring brings.
A Happy New Year to you friends, creatives, clients — no matter where you are at. Take comfort, take joy.
It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, —
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.
On stump and stack and stem, —
The summer’s empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, —
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.