Become

I tell myself it’s stupid and I can’t help but feel it anyway. A small flame nearly snuffed by the cynicism of our modern world, flickering, but there all the same: hope. Hurt. Bitter-sweet goodbye. An ending. The year is over and I know nothing really changes with the rising of the sun tomorrow. But if something had to end, then surely something else must begin– and that is hopeful, isn’t it?

I feed my tiny flame. I tell myself, this is our chance. I tell myself, I can change. I tell myself, this time will be different. The flame roars to life, a veritable forest fire where only a spark stood before. The sun rises and echoes my flame in its brilliance. I am bursting at the seams. Last year is over. Last year is over! I get to leave it all behind. I get to leave behind all of the small parts of me I’d begun to hate: the bitter parts, the angry parts, the anguished parts. I get to rewrite. Looking back on last year, it felt like I’d accomplished nothing. My negative self-talk had me convinced that just because I felt bitter, my life was, indeed, meaningless. Then, I looked at the photos.

Oh my God. I did so much. I illustrated and published my mother's children’s book last year. I renovated my house. I renovated a school building. I adopted two gorgeous flemish giant rabbits. I taught my 5-year-old to read. I planted a garden. I baked cakes. I rode horses on the beach. I went on a vacation. I celebrated 10 years of marriage. I climbed mountains. I lived outrageously hard. I loved outrageously hard.

So, if last year wasn’t the sad waste I’d thought, what magnificent miracles might happen this year? This year I plan only one thing: to be me– to be completely, perfectly myself in all of my bizarre, hopeful, forgiving to a fault, glory.

This year I will become, because this year…

I am willing.