On New Year’s Day, rowdy wind rocks our trees. It strums our massive Corinthian wind chimes (Tuned to a C chord, they sound melodic).
I raise Dreamer’s cell phone (mine’s not as smart). With a click, I’m recording song amid storm.
I could use a new tune for the New Year. How about you?
The dark side of Carpe diem
Flash Forward. By midnight, this list will describe Laurie’s New Year’s Day:
Mop up dog barf
Accidentally break favorite bowl
Make nice lunch for Dreamer (which makes him sick)
Struggle with blog post
Struggle with chime video (which won’t upload)
Mutter bad words, bite tongue
Shatter the “Peace” (as Marquee sign falls off mantel)
Mutter some more
Get car stuck in driveway
And that would be the really long driveway I spent several days clearing, shovelful by shovelful. (Did I mention our plow’s on the fritz, and Dreamer’s back has been out all week?)
Serious . . . serial . . . snowballing defeat.
By midnight, the day seized me.
Back to the Present (just can’t see it as a gift right now): With four inches of new snow, ice-flurries biting like buckshot, no let-up in sight, and my shoveling stamina, gone . . . I slump. Never mind I grew up in Wisconsin.
Now imagine our longest icicle. Measured against me, it’s even taller (and also gradually thickening), and it weeps a little, into a drift. A Klein-cicle, stout as a thigh bone.
Seems the Epic Icicle is taxing the eaves. Posing a threat to anyone walking alongside, not unlike heartbreak, frustration, tussles with jealousy, an urge for revenge—sadly, my latest hobbies.
Must I really knock it down?
Better to first stamp a row of holes in the snow, little burial spots. (Sometimes I need a visual.) In goes envy. Then angst. Meanness. Hurt.
Flakes fall faster now. I fill in each void with confession, a boot scuff, the lug sole of gratitude.
Ahhh newness, white as snow.
Then yes, wield the shovel. Crack! Chunk by knobbly chunk, down she goes, the once-proud column in ruins.
Back indoors, that image of ruin stays with me, stubborn as a stain.
In The Broken Way, Ann Voskamp writes: “Let love break into you and mess with you and loosen you up and make you laugh and cry and give and hurt because this is the only way to really live. . . . Don’t waste a minute on anything less . . .”
So much for my usual Carpe Diem M.O. (Seize the Day!). I’m coining a new phrase.
Squeeze the Day
Kiss the curmudgeon! Serve up those Tums on a silver dish. Cut loose with Bigfoot ballet and a sweeping bow. Squirrel away dish shards for mosaic.
I don’t know about your day, or your past year, but I hit some rough terrain: cold, hard, heartsore places that blurred my outlook. Froze my hopes.
Lately, I lean on personal epiphany via this thought from Ann Voskamp (my paraphrase):
Every morning we get to rise (“get to?” . . . I get to rise).
God believes in us (now I’m speechless),
believes in His stories being written through us . . .
The Magi followed the great, glittering star, the one God set in the sky like a chunk of ice. A sign in the heavens. A blinking Marquee bulb, proclaiming “Peace”—even knowing how often we’d break it.
Did the Wise Ones who searched the heavens for signs ever sense that Heaven believed in them? Dare see God’s Story already being written through them?
And after the Wise Ones knelt before their new God, they must have embraced each day as never before, all for love. Amplectamur diem.
Beside those famous gifts, I wonder what else they left behind.
What will you leave behind in this New Year?
What phrase will guide you?