It feels like the year is suspended, as the pages fold over and we weave slowly across the last. Spun through the concertina of seasons, we dwell here now in the darkness. In that space before the light of the new year flickers in and the book is closed on us.
Long nights give us the space to dream here as December days wrap us in goodbyes. It feels to me like being in water, our flesh curled beautifully in reeds, dropping off our story as we glide slowly into shore. This year's ink still in between our toes, we will collect fresh pages, cracking the spine with our paper footsteps.
I talk not of resolutions, of false promises to be better than before. I am no different on the 1st than I am on the 31st. I am tucking into those last few breaths, sipping deeply my experiences from my recent past. I lay at the foot of this 12 and I listen.
I listen to where I fell down, and where I didn't get up. I listen to where my heart is still broken and I hear that I have loved.
I listen to the grace of shattered glass.
I give all my thanks for that.