A Long December

I’m not much of a writer. I’m not bad really, but I have no gift. Not like some people. I have friends with real talent, real ability-- a style and voice and a clarity that I could never have. People who paint with words like I would with oils. I’ve always been envious; I’m just an amateur who gets by because I read a lot and I edit well.

But nevertheless, I write frequently. My talents (to the extent that I possess any) are visual. That’s how I express myself. Unfortunately that’s not enough sometimes. Human beings are multimedia types; we need pictures, yes, but also sounds and words and movement. There are some things that can only be expressed in certain ways. Things that words or music can say that a drawing never could (though some of us try anyway). I express myself visually, best as I can. And when visuals don’t work, I write.

That’s what this is all about-- this whole experiment, this blog. It’s a written gallery, a place to display pieces that could never be crafted with a brush. Most of it’s not that good, but I never claimed to be a polymath. I do my best.

I’ve sat down a number of times today, trying to write something for the end of the year. New Year’s means a lot to me, you see. It’s the only holiday that really does. Most of them are religious or patriotic or both, and I’m neither. I don’t like buying cards or decorating, I don’t like holiday songs or consumerism for its own sake. But New Year’s I love. New Year’s is special. It’s arbitrary, sure, but so are most things we hold as meaningful. For whatever reason, this is the time that we’ve chosen to count off the years. This is when we decide yes, here, now, that’s one more trip around the sun. One more revolution out of the way. And look, here we go again, not even stopping for breath. Here comes another year, another chance, another try. How could that not be worth commemorating? New Year’s is a time to remember the past and celebrate the future, all at once. Who could resist a holiday like that? But then, I’m a sentimental.

So like I said, I was trying to write a piece for the end of the year. A “looking back” sort of thing. But I could never get more than a paragraph or two in without getting stuck. A few days back, I sat down with a sheet of paper and started writing out the events and memories from these past 12 months. Not in detail, just notes to remind myself that this happened, or that. I’d completely filled the page and two more just like it before I made myself stop. It was just... it was too much. It was just too much. And what could I possibly say? What kind of response would be appropriate for a year like this one? Words fail me, just as pictures do. There’s nothing to say.

I have spent this holiday with family, with friends, with a group or just one person. Normally I try to make plans, to do something, go somewhere. This year I made only a few half-hearted attempts and quickly gave up. A part of me wants to be alone. It sounds silly, but a part of me feels like I could never share the end of this year with someone, like no one else would really understand. I know better, but even still.

2005 was not the worst year of my life, but it was the hardest. God, it was. I never... I don’t know. I never knew it would be this hard. Any of it. I never thought.

But you know what? I survived. I made it. I did my best, tried as hard as I knew how to do what I thought was right, and no matter how bad things got, I never quit. I never let it beat me, not even once. So that’s something. And I’m stronger for it. I’m a better person for it, all of it. So that’s something else.

Another trip around the sun. Another year. A little bit older, a little wiser, a little stronger. That seems fair. That’s right, how it should be. A long year, a hard year, but I survived, and I could do it again. Tomorrow I’ll get up and I’ll go out and I’ll do things, accomplish something, start this next year right.

But tonight, here by myself, I’ll remember the year that’s passed.