Another year comes bounding forth

I lay in bed for a few brief moments the other day, between films, and thought on the fact that I have been remiss in my writing duties, both with regards to personal correspondence and well-wishing to friends and family, and with this here virtual brain dump, as well.

Perhaps we could ascribe my diminished need to write all to peaceful emotional stability and contentedness? Perhaps. I realize that I am still the protagonist of my own drama, and hope that nobody's sensibilities be offended by my apparent self-indulgent universe. Let's be fair, we are all the centers of our own universes, and still, I thought about making myself write again, daily, but only for me.

Why? Selfish deprivation imposed on the thronging masses? Well, no. Mostly it is that nothing terribly exciting goes on, nothing worthy of note, or even of story-telling value, at least not that I would risk immortalizing here in the hinterlands of virtual ether. I have been a traveling fool, Mexico, New Hampshire, Northern California, home and back to the bay, again, for what I hope will be a restful girlishly indulgent week, now that my little one has exited stage left back to my parent's house.

And yet I suddenly feel the urge to retract, pulling my tender, flailing appendages back in under some makeshift carapace, that will somehow protect me from vulnerability, the savage world, cold, pain.

Last night, new year's eve, Kirsten and I retired early. She was unwell and I have no need nor desire to be social for the sake of it, no need to be alone in a city, mine or otherwise, no need to mark some arbitrary passing in the company of strangers. Instead I took to internal housekeeping. Payment of professional dues, procurement of course materials for the next set of classes that offer themselves up.

But I do believe, and this may be as highly ritualized as needs be, that moments of self-reflection, in regularly spaced intervals, are a worthy endeavor. And so, once again, I shall indulge myself publicly, with the caveat, that should need no explanation, that the face we share with the world is only one sliver of ourselves, a fraction of our entirety, a scattering of facets, in no way complete, of our being. There are some things that I share with only a few, some with only one, and some, that I share with nobody, not even myself, or at least not fully, honestly and forthcomingly. Perhaps a resolution for the coming year could be simply that: honesty with self with consistent standards and moral requirements as those imposed on the exterior world. We'll see. I have a hard time believing, still, in my inherent worth, or goodness, but this is not a group therapy session, nor is it the topic of my yearly reflection.

So, what did 2007 look like? It seems, to me, that it was one of the more topographically diverse years of mine in recent history. Rampant upheaval and change has been a theme, at least for those of you who have known me since the inception of this little nomadic collection of texts. But what I mean is that I can neatly classify the year 2007 into several entirely distinct epochs, mostly to do with my emotional relationship to the outer banks of my personal island, and the shipwrecked navigators that stumbled about these shores. Last year began with a rediscovery of Mexico City, a reclaiming for myself and I. of the streets that had once been familiar, but had become foreign, and in their foreignness, fear inspiring. Despite my distaste for other elements of that journey, I take away from it the joy of walking down Insurgentes and Revolución with my daughter, hand in hand, exploring massive exhibits of photography, and nibbling elotes. This has been a year of absences too.

The summer months, spent in inflamed self-reflection and rage at the status of women's and children's rights, and the institutionalized obstacles to responsible paternity (among other issues), and long, enlightening and hopeful discussions with a smattering of taxi drivers in Mexico, represented a reprieve from motherly duties. It was a time for extensive reclaiming, by feet pounding on pavement, or delicately clacking in heels, or bounding about, over miles of concrete. I fell in love with the city, and fell in love with my own aloneness. This could be, in some ways, "the year of sleeping alone", although 2008 doesn't necessarily promise to make any radical modulations on that theme. Having I. absent from my house, being inside my body, sweating, bleeding, crying alone. Those have been some of the generous gifts that I have bestowed upon myself, and which my loving parents have afforded me.

This last half year has been, instead of lonely, extremely fulfilling in that instead of feeling isolated, or as if my condition of self somehow demanded an unfair imposition of foreclosure, the solitude that I sought and achieved was a much more peaceful one. I have finally remembered how to be alone with myself, without the urgency of becoming un-so. I like this place, though I do admit my back requires attention and my toes are often cold; my arms, at times, unwittingly grasp at the air, in search of midnight solace. All told, though, those are minor skirmishes lost in a winning campaign of peace and self-satisfaction.

I have, despite recent poor communication skills, I think, cultivated a vast and profound network of friendships. I have moved forward, ever forward with my degree, gaining some closure through the performance of certain rites of passage. I have been hurt by people I love. I have, I think, truly forgiven them. It was a good year, of self-discovery. I took classes about things that interested me, I took risks, and plan to continue, regarding my deepest goals, and I have tried to forgive myself my foibles of character, to accept things as they are without the hand-wringing anxiety about what they might, or will, inevitably become, or unbecome.

And so. The year pokes its blue-skied head in the window, of a house that is not mine. Two cats, also not mine, lounge about peacefully. I am with a dear friend, who has travelled cross the country, convinced me to pamper myself in languid nudity, surrounded by women in saunas and hot tubs, rubbing salts on our proverbial wounds, and who schemes about our mutual futures. 2008 looks promising.