Last week was arduous. I lost my debit card so I was inadvertently locked out of my checking account. Work was slow and I ended up with about 150 dollars less than what I typically have at the end of the week. The carpal tunnel that usually lays dormant at the base of my wrists began waking me up every morning, fingers numb and immobile. I stopped reading through the manuscript and started spending time staring off into the abyss, reflecting on the year that will end in just a few short days. By the time Christmas Eve arrived I was exhausted and my entire body ached but there was magic to be felt and I let it descend upon me. Christmas Eve afternoon I went to work and encountered happy, smiling people who shared tiny bits of their stories with me. The building was warm and rosy and filled with anticipation of what the rest of the evening and next day would hold for all of us.

A spur of the moment decision led me to midnight mass at the Cathedral of the Madeline. I love tradition and ceremony and that thin veil, invisible to some, that allows you to see your own individuality steeped in those planned and timed sequences created by man in an attempt to worship the omnipotent. Saturday night I clamored down five frigid streets in a skirt, shivering and wondering why I wasn’t at home sipping hot chocolate. Then I entered the church and remembered how I lucky I am. I’m not in the business of convincing anyone of anything and respect everyone's choice to believe in a high power, or nothing at all. However, there are five instances in my past that led me down paths that often end in death, but here I am, long after those life-threatening moments. If my life had been at stake in one instance, I’d call it luck, but when you’ve been the places I’ve been and lived to tell about them, there has to be something stronger than fate coming into play.

I spend most of my time in church staring up at the ceiling, letting words rush around me. I catch the ones I need to hear but for the most part, church is an isolated spiritual event for me. I connect with one force and acknowledge humanity’s inability to fully understand and I accept what others dismiss. In that quiet place in the back of my mind, beyond thought, there are no words, just space and belonging. It is strange and I haven’t the words to describe it or a name for its occurrence. I just know it exists.

This is my favorite time of year. The space between Christmas and New Year’s Day calls for reflection and introspection. As the last few days of the year tick away I find myself slipping into daydreams of the future. The main daydream and future endeavor I feast my thoughts upon is publishing my first novel. Many people don’t know this, but I’ve published a book of poetry so this will technically be my second publication. I didn’t promote the first book the way I should have. One reason is simple. I was a different person when I wrote that book. Bitter, angry and sad. The words smack of resentment and pain. When I go back and read through it I wonder, who was that girl? Who was that angry, pained person? Pain is a part of life but it’s the short end of the stick. The longer, more filling aspects of life are built on bricks of happiness and love. My worldview has changed but I’ve not forgotten about the dark parts of life. We emerge from darkness and search for light. We wouldn’t know the difference if we had not experienced the darkness. It is my task to create a coherent story that conveys these messages. Writing is like cooking. You can have all the right ingredients and follow the instructions correctly but that doesn’t mean your meal will be great. Cook who can feel the right amount of seasonings and prepare meals without timers because they intuitively know when something is ready, are the ones that make phenomenal meals. When you can finally pull open the oven door and look at whatever you are cooking and just know that it is done, you’ve mastered cooking. When you can read through your manuscript and just know, without anyone else telling you, that it’s done, you’ve mastered that manuscript and are ready to share it with that world.

New Year’s Eve I will work in the morning but the night and the next five days are mine. Before that time I need to finish up whatever social endeavors and errands I need to run. I want five full days to myself left alone with nothing other than my thoughts and words. To some it may sound lonely, but I have only ever been lonely in the company of others.