This gap between the holidays and New Year’s is the epitome of serenity.
2017 is gone. 2018 has yet to begin.
It is a quiet time, but not a passive one.
I hold in one hand last year’s dented, grubby nub of a pencil, dull, cracked point leading directly into the faintest glimmer of an eraser. In the other, my fingers tentatively trace along a luxurious expanse of unblemished yellow, buttery pink, glistening silver. Waiting to write the first imperfections, the first aching, beautiful truths.
How I reflect on the past year determines the shape it will stamp out for itself in my memory before nestling down like a sleeping moose. How well I learn its lessons and shed its lingering does-not-serves determines the reception I will give whatever enters stage left.
This week feels out of time, like a blank sheet of looseleaf inserted between two chapters, but like any moment it has the power to alter all that came before and all that follows.