Fresh hell

Well, alrighty then—we’ve rung in yet another year. Yippee. 

I’ve always found 1 January a somewhat artificial construct for new beginnings, but I suppose we have to draw a line in the sand somewhere, and this is as good as any.

Toward that end, I’ve spent some time over the past month slapping multi-colored stickies on my patio door as a means of focusing on areas where I want to make changes in the coming months, with the different colors denoting different component parts of the areas. After sufficient time spent in contemplation, I’ll need to prioritize, and then, you know, take action.

It’s always something.

But more important to me is the list of things from 2018 that I burnt last night at midnight. You know—all the crap that happened to and around me in el Año Viejo, what I’ve done, what I’ve left undone, etc. I do this every year as a way of clearing the decks, so to speak, for whatever fresh hell the new year brings. I have a habit of hanging on to this stuff, long after it’s served whatever purpose it might have.

Burning doesn’t always work, but it’s a start. Fire purifies, and that’s precisely what this year needs to get it going.