With the new year comes resolve. to change, to heal, to amend, to elevate. That our thoughts rise into lighter, happier, more contentedness. That our heartstrings pluck merry tunes, lifting melodies that bring joy and hope.
And yet, how? How to shrug off the heavy coat of the previous year? To close the book and set it upon the bookcase: a fine tome for an arduous period but one hopefully complete and final. No edits or revisions, no sequels or serials. A tidy, finite story that consumed and scorched the century mark but has now ended.
A new sheet of paper is coiled into the typewriter, waiting for the tapping that will embed ink into the fibers, to tell a new verse, a new lyric, a new story. And from where does inspiration arise? Where does hope blossom?
The ancient forests rejuvenate after a tremendous blaze. The conifers clasp their treasures inside their cones, protected from the flames, only to have the rich reward of loam and nutrients, an abundance of light and space. A forest is reborn. The microscopic fungal fibers networked beneath the surface, communicating and supporting, preparing for the future, intuitively knowing the needs of the forest. Waiting for resurrection.
I seek joy in the small matters, trust that even in the most minute details, there is wonder. With patience, I stumble upon magic and loveliness.
For the magical snow across the south this week:
Rufus Wainwright and the Choir!Choir!Choir!:
And Storm Large singing Amado Mio and discovering Pink Martini is coming to my small town:
And finally Andre Bocelli singing with Ed Sheeran: