There was a time when I was self-propelled. My two feet transported this gamboling shamble on the road. I had a need for speed, was compelled to escape the wanderings of my mind and so went walkabout. That’s what I want to do today, to rush out in the rain, to flush out the bad and sad thoughts, to feel connected by running away.

Still. Upstairs the boy practices viola. The man naps in the back room. A dog and cat sleep beside me and another dog curls on the couch. The rain tosses itself against the window, repeating its name before it disappears into the earth. My placid, stationary feet rest on the hearth, gathering heat from a fire that I built and maintain.

This is not all joy. I struggle with connection and am, in many ways, more cut off from the wider world than I was a decade ago. I wonder whether I will ever allow myself to be truly vulnerable. Parts of me feel sealed away and I’m not sure whether I can make this life work for me without permanently pruning what feels untidy and untoward.

And there is joy. Laughter. The basic satisfaction of compatibility, of everything fitting together like a child’s jigsaw puzzle, simple shapes painted primary colors. With this sort of bland comfort, this predictable placement, who wants to show their jagged edges? I am torn between acceptance of this way of being, of continually sanding away the burrs—the anger, the hunger, the feelings—and figuring out how to make space for my ragged, full self. 

Surely I can be all of this, can let the rough patches touch smooth curves. I can wander and come back again, feel and express myself as I am. I am capable. My life has room. Freedom is possible. I choose two words for 2020:  honesty and connection. There is plenty of space to read between the lines, to make choices and create stories, to be alone and in community.