I’ve never been good with goodbyes. It seems to be something
I resist, or at least something that is foreign to my essence. I think I said too many
goodbyes in 2016.
Now, before I jump into yet another wail against 2016, I want to
preface by admitting that a lot of beautiful and lovely experiences happened in
2016. It began pretty hopeful, as I recall. I have always liked the number 16
and I thought that maybe this year would be my lucky one. For a while, it
really did feel lucky. I received the teaching internship I’d always wanted, I
received good news after good news regarding funding for my upcoming trip to
London, and everything seemed to be moving in my favor.
London was lovely as always. I found treasures in theatres,
archives, and gardens. I went back to the Lake District where my soul expands
and every doubt flies away on the wind. I hiked Arthur’s seat in full yellow
bloom. I was in my absolute favorite place with one of my absolute favorite
people. My thesis seemed to be taking shape, the prospectus would pass easily, and
I felt confident in what I did and who I was becoming.
Like I said, there were many wonderful experiences in 2016.
I went camping, horseback riding, skiing, hiking, running, dancing, and
sledding. I wrote a lot and read a lot. But, the truth is, 2016 left me rubbed raw.
In July of 2016, I said goodbye to my Dad, or more
accurately, I didn’t say goodbye. After my father was diagnosed with ALS, I
always made an effort to tell him “goodbye” and “I love you” when I left the
house. Though, on the 4th of July, I was so caught up in getting
everyone out the door on time to see the fireworks, and my father was in such a
state of sleepy unconsciousness, that I don’t think I even said goodbye. I don’t
feel unsettled about that though. I know my Dad knew how much I loved him, and
I’d made sure to tell him everything I wanted to long before that fateful
night. I guess it’s ok because as I mentioned, I’m not very good with goodbyes anyhow.
A few months later, I said goodbye to the only guy I’ve ever
truly loved. While I didn’t feel the absence of my father too often, I felt
this absence unceasingly. I discovered that both of these men were anchors,
pillars, and constants in my life. Having them there everyday and then suddenly
gone the next was unsettling and unsteadying. Everything felt wrong and
completely unexplainable. Finally, I watched the world turn upside down on
November 8th and the
continuing slaughter in Syria, and realized I’d said goodbye to something /
someone else, another anchor—my childlike self.
I used to radiate hopefulness, optimism, exuberance, wonder,
trust, and a belief that everything was going to be ok. I lived by the mantra
that humans were inherently good and that when you try your best to be your
best, your efforts are met with abundant miracles and blessings. I laughed a
lot. I was playful. I got excited about little things like chalk drawings and
peaches on trees. 2016 forced me to grow up.
I don’t mean to sound so dramatic. Frankly, dramatic
requires far more energy and vigor than I feel capable of right now. It’s just
that I’ve never felt so rocked by a year before, and I’m trying to figure that
out. So, here I am, saying goodbye to 2016 and a hesitant hello to 2017.
2017, I’m coming to you unsteady and unraveled. I’d like to
say I’m coming with an open heart, but last time I went to chat with my heart,
I discovered that she’s retreated, leaving a “closed for repairs” sign up on
the door. (I don’t blame her for resenting me. I coaxed her to risk sticking
her neck out so far and so vulnerably. So, if she just wants to lay on the
floor and trace her fingers through the carpet for a while, I don’t blame her).
I’ll just wait and plow forward into this year of unknown and uncertainty with or
without her. Still, here’s hoping for a new year of lovely, beautiful
experiences and growing up. 2017, be good to us please.
