Though I've been trying hard against strong odds
Well, I'll fall if I don't fight, and at my side is God
This has been itching in my skin for a few days. I realize that the current state of the world is troublesome, from war and violence all across the globe through the ongoing plausible threat of red-hatted brownshirts returning to power right here in the USA. It's a miasma of large-scale misery.
And it's compounded by the tragedy and loss that so many of my friends--and I--have been forced to face one on one. Loss doesn't heal. The best we can hope is to figure out how to rebuild around our loss. I understand why so many wanna kick the recently-expired year to the curb, and then kick it some more, and then kick it some more still. I don't want to say or imply anything that trivializes the ache, the sorrow, nor even the anger.
But I also have to be honest: I'm going to look back upon 2023 as a good year for me.
I know. I'm sorry.
Allow me my tunnel vision for the moment. My daughter got married in 2023, and seeing her and my new son-in-law come together with such delight and joy made it the single happiest night of my life. I mean it. I will never forget how wonderful that evening felt.
I wish everyone could have a chance at that kind of feeling, for however fleeting a time.
There's more. At the age of 63, I finally saw the publication of my first book. I have a second book finished, a new idea for a third book, and notions for more. It's very possible that none of these other books will ever happen; the first one did happen, and it happened in 2023.
This blog will accrue its millionth visit this week, and it came close to hitting that mark before Ryan Seacrest declared a new year. The number is actually modest for a daily blog approaching its eighth birthday, but what the hell. A million clicks. No money, mind you, and very little acclaim, but a weird sense of clueless pride prevails. A million. It just sounds good.
And I know: None of the above helps anyone else one damned bit. I don't feel guilty, exactly, but I'm very much aware that I lucked out last year.
I can't deny the glow that 2023 granted me. I know so many who are hurting. It's not fair. So much of our suffering is inflicted by forces beyond our control.
If you've had some victories along the way, don't begrudge yourself the right to recognize them. But spare a thought for all those cast in a shadow by 2023. Pray they'll have some victories of their own to celebrate, some light to slice the darkness. And when our own shadows and specters return--as they absolutely will, make no mistake about that--pray also that our brothers and sisters will, in turn, spare a thought for us when we need it most.
2024 looks to be a big, ugly, and, I fear, clinically insane beast of a year. It doesn't take Nostradamus to predict that some of us won't make it to 2025.
But I hope I do. I hope all my friends and loved ones do. I hope you do, and I hope the same for all those you hold dear. Join hands. Face front. We'll tame the beasts--big, the ugly, and the clinically insane--impartially.
To the extent we can, anyway.
Together.
And there ain't no one going to turn me 'round
"Ballad Of El Goodo" written by Alex Chilton and Christopher Bell
No comments:
Post a Comment