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Old Year, New Year | Annabelle Bonebrake

I love endings. The sweet sorrow of December is upon us, and I’m hanging lights and making plans in spite of it all.


We’ve solved the mystery of the year. Perhaps we’re crying. The protagonists have returned home, fallen in love, or broken up. The narrative arc is circling back, perhaps a little warped or broken this time around.


Look back. In December, the art, the messiness, of life is behind us for a moment. When the clock strikes twelve, all uncertainty lies ahead. We can yield to it, bear witnesses to the close of a bitter year, withholding judgment.


Do yourself the kindness. Watch. Wait. Notice.


Go into the project of tomorrow not knowing. I’m telling this to myself, as much as I am telling you. Let us be brave enough to love this year. When all of life is rearranged, flipped-- as we say-- on it’s head, what else can we be, but curious?


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