For a long time, November started my creative year. I would fly by the seat of my pants and scribble furiously through National Novel Writing Month, and then spend the rest of the year editing. A few times, I wrote sequels to earlier works; other times I branched into something completely different that usually crashed and burned.
In 2014, I discovered I had to move the following year. The move was difficult, if only because I had to find a place that allowed my dog and two cats. We found one, thanks to a colleague, and enjoyed it for 3 years, when it was time to move on again.
This time, I decided I needed more security so I bought a house. I do love it – but again the move was more difficult than I planned, if only because I managed to trap my dominant hand in the garage door and had to learn to type and interpret with a black fingernail (it is getting better, but it is still pretty ugly).
At last, after 4 long years, I have a haven I can call mine. I still have boxes to unpack and decor to put up, not to mention a garage full of the previous owner’s stuff to sort. The family came for Thanksgiving last week, and the house was full of football and food. The younger folks enjoyed our park-like front yard while the older two generations lounged in the front room. It was a wonderful “welcome home” and “thankful we have been blessed with another year” all rolled into one.
So, this begins my new year. My first year in my forever home (knock on wood); my first year back at writing instead of researching after a 4 year hiatus; my first year at rediscovering who I am when I feel safe, secure and capable.
Here’s to you, and your new year, whenever it begins. May it find you feeling the same.