Last night I decided I needed an evening and morning to myself, so after Marshall dropped me off at my car in the Old City I drove home, cleaned up the kitchen, turned on the radiator, and opened up my journal from 2008.  I read from July to November, rapt, and finally put it down well after midnight.

How different my life is, now.  It’s so easy to forget how I was living, three years ago, to let my life run through me like glasses of water, or wine.  Or like a river through a gorge: being changed, but petrifying each change into a new identity, forgetting the pieces of myself that are being washed downstream or left in piles on the bank, the part that is the motion of the river.  Not to be too talky.  But I’m remembering how lonely I was,  how I subsisted on Job and Psalm 13.  I forgot that I was reading Job, then.  I soaked it in through my pores, I immersed myself in that sea of cataclysm like it was saving my sanity — which it was.

Yesterday morning, Marshall and I had gotten snowed-in at Evan and Casey’s and woke up with the family.  After some biscuits and watching Marshall chase the kids around with a blanket (“playing monster”), Casey brought out The Secret Language of Relationships: Your Complete Personology Guide to Any Relationship With Anyone, and we read about love potentialities between a Scorpio-Sagittarius and a Cancer III, and others.  When we got to the other huge book, the one about karmic paths and destinies, I was pretty hooked — not necessarily on the gavel-ringing “truth” of any of these methods and conclusions, but on the suggestions, the predictions, the possibilities.  You are walking on a path, they say, and more than likely you’re going to have to make some decisions.  Curb some impulses, encourage others, and you will find growth in yourself.  Necessarily.  My karmic path, apparently, is leading me to an understanding of my worth that’s independent of the work I produce, which (confidentially) is something God has been trying for years to get me to accept.

So, I leave 2008, the year in which all I produced was ovarian cancer and tears and patience, and have already entered 2011.  On New Year’s Eve (on Marshall’s balcony with bacon-wrapped dates, mulled wine, and toasted bread with venison sausage and a fancy French brie), Katie Gray, Marshall, and I started & didn’t finish a conversation on what 2010 was, and what we hoped 2011 would be.  There’s still time to have that conversation — and I guess that’s what this blog is, partly.  Remembering all things, hoping all things.  And I hope I’m not saying all this just because the sun came out today.