So, here we are one more time, maybe for some of us the last time, walking away through Christmas toward the uncertain light of a new year. The year actually started a week ago, at Solstice. We stare straight ahead, trying to discern the dark face of winter, but already the world, or at least, our side of it, is turning back toward the light.
On the other side of Epiphany, lurks Lent. We paint it lean and spare, but it is the season of lengthening days, tending brighter and warmer as we go.. The sun is out there, but we're too enthralled with our winter misery to notice. It takes us a while to catch on and face up to Easter.
I'm not making any new year's resolutions for 2019, other than to try to participate with such grace and hope as I'm given for the journey, and to be kind to the people who share the road, especially when I don't feel like it.
I'll probably spend 2019 writing short stories, if I'm granted a whole year. If I die tonight, I won't be sad I didn't finish another novel. I've written four already. That's probably more than anyone should write. But If this turns out to be my last day, I would be sad I haven't written more stories.
The real story, though, the truest story, is the one we're all living together. I'm grateful for the prospect of being in it for one more chapter. Maybe this time, I'll finally get it right, and play my little part honestly, without pretension, as the Author intends.