I am thinking of Limits, both visible and hidden, placed from birth or gleaned from experience, the underlying lie that we are undeserving, fear and the fear of fear, the anchor of depression, the plague of self-doubt, all of it inspiring the desperate wish to overcome, to surmount, to see and live into what we think and know is possible, to free ourselves and run laughing into an improbable year. Let this be the year.
And of Purpose, of things unfulfilled, destinies unlived and dreams still dormant, of seeds planted in the fertile ground of the soul before we were named, waiting for their time, their season, waiting for their chance to push up through the dark soil and reveal their resilient, unshakable resolve, waiting patiently for their year. Let this be the year.
And of Criticism: the endless cataloguing of faults, the harshness of judgment leveled at a blameless self, the pointless reckoning of an inherent worth, the fickleness of reflection and ever-shifting light, the churning noise of opinions both inside and out, the yearning for an unchanging value and immutable beauty, to be discovered in some distant year. Let this be the year.
The empty places, begging to be filled by some generous, ethereal hand in a far away, longed-for year. Let this be the year.
(Resentments, held tightly, tiny weights affixed to the heart, to be let go of, forgiven in some other, waiting year. Let this be the year.)
And the labyrinth of Thought, heaping complexity on the simple, layers of meaningless meaning, the useless chatter of questions, second, third, fourth guessing, birthing the stark longing for clarity, simplicity, directness, for yes, no, for certainty in what can be certain, to be awake for each of the days of a counted year. Let this be the year.
Years lived and yet-to-be lived, heavy laden with wishes, dreams, dry leaves on a crackling fire or water for a thirsty mouth, years pregnant with possibility and desire, all of it aching to be born, urged on and emboldened by an unceasing voice fervently whispering greatness! greatness! crying out to be amplified, heard, to be magnified, to be raised and shouted from the mountainous days, the glorious peaks of some magnificent year yet to come.
Let this be the year.
And of Purpose, of things unfulfilled, destinies unlived and dreams still dormant, of seeds planted in the fertile ground of the soul before we were named, waiting for their time, their season, waiting for their chance to push up through the dark soil and reveal their resilient, unshakable resolve, waiting patiently for their year. Let this be the year.
And of Criticism: the endless cataloguing of faults, the harshness of judgment leveled at a blameless self, the pointless reckoning of an inherent worth, the fickleness of reflection and ever-shifting light, the churning noise of opinions both inside and out, the yearning for an unchanging value and immutable beauty, to be discovered in some distant year. Let this be the year.
The empty places, begging to be filled by some generous, ethereal hand in a far away, longed-for year. Let this be the year.
(Resentments, held tightly, tiny weights affixed to the heart, to be let go of, forgiven in some other, waiting year. Let this be the year.)
And the labyrinth of Thought, heaping complexity on the simple, layers of meaningless meaning, the useless chatter of questions, second, third, fourth guessing, birthing the stark longing for clarity, simplicity, directness, for yes, no, for certainty in what can be certain, to be awake for each of the days of a counted year. Let this be the year.
Years lived and yet-to-be lived, heavy laden with wishes, dreams, dry leaves on a crackling fire or water for a thirsty mouth, years pregnant with possibility and desire, all of it aching to be born, urged on and emboldened by an unceasing voice fervently whispering greatness! greatness! crying out to be amplified, heard, to be magnified, to be raised and shouted from the mountainous days, the glorious peaks of some magnificent year yet to come.
Let this be the year.