Dancing hands

Here I sit.

It’s December 31, 2017, a few hours before the ball falls. My husband is sick in bed with a god-awful cold and I am in my office listening to Pandora New Age while I press keys and dream a new post. I say “dream” because for me, all writing begins as a dream until its done and ready to post or send.

The last few months have been difficult months in which to write. We moved, my job required more hours and the intenseness of the season took its toll. But once our tree came down I dove in and finished two columns and an essay I sent big-time. The columns will most probably make the paper but the essay, I’ll have to wait a little longer on that one.

I thought writing such a personal piece would be hard. But when my hands stared dancing, the words came easily. It was almost as if they were waiting to spill out and soak the page. It’s good. I know when my writing is good and this one is. It’s a, mask off, honest piece. Whether someone else wants to read about my failings and eventual triumph is, as they say, another story.

As I get older these kinds of pieces have become important. Because I’ve trudged through shit, and come out the other side, as they say, smelling like a rose, maybe my experiences have significance.  I’m thinking ‘book’. That’s how much it means to me.

On this special night all promises have merit. May we all experience new beginnings which foster success and may this be the year when, across the globe, honesty breeds peace.

Happy New Year.