Let this be the year of messy thoughts, messy floors, misspelled journal entries that go on and on. A year filled with random, ill-made crocheted projects and wearables, mismatched mis-shapen legwarmers, colorful granny squares by the dozen, because this is the year of crochet hooks, sketching paper, violin lessons and writing workshops. This is the year of crazy ideas letting loose into patchwork papermache coyotes, ginger marmalade, opanci mosaics and, damn it, maybe even that accent wall. The year of websites and business cards, massages and macrame, pictures finally put up on bare walls, and never worn clothes tossed out the window.
Let this be the year of the alternative, the doing of what has only been wondered about, the being of what needs to be expressed, the creating of whatever flows forth. Let it explode, gush, and ooze into the world with no hall monitor at the doorway saying who gets to go out to play and who doesn't. Let it envelop, engulf, even overwhelm. Pulling you in and even under, tasting its delicious strangeness and unctuousness. There is no detention for mishaps, no rap on the knuckles for swearing during yoga, no scorn for leaving the socks on the floor and dishes in the sink. Messy, raw, vulnerable – this is the year of learning to play all over again and again and again.
Let this be the year of whispering to the leaves, gawking with the birds, and glowing with the sun. A year of continuing the deep dive with all that it conjures, the dark despair, the fear at the pit of the belly that reeks of primal ancient demons of heavy-weight proportions, a density that cannot fathom what the lightness of being might portend, preserved and perseverating into rotten detritus.
... and then maybe, just maybe, to laugh out loud, to laugh loudly, to laugh with abandon, to laugh at it ALL.