2015 was a year of books and music and art, of top-heavy dahlias and nesting hawks. It was a season of fire followed by a season of ice.


One spring day, I stood by myself in a dome of blue and green at the edge of the Pacific and thought, “I have it all,” and the very next morning I drove home in the rain, grieving for all I had lost, wondering if I’d ever had it to begin with. It was a year of slamming myself closed and then opening, opening, opening, tracing the new, jagged outlines of my world with tentative fingers.

It was a year of deep loneliness and of overwhelming community, a house empty with sorrow and then bursting with love. It was a year of blinding anger and midnight terror and sweet, steady love running, dancing, singing through it all. I woke up to face every day of this year, even though some people didn’t. It was the year I wanted to give up and didn’t. It was a year of paradox and irony, of clutching stubbornly at what I thought should be mine and then learning to let go. It was the year I forgave myself and fought to protect the softness I discovered under the crust, to keep my hands and my heart and my eyes open when my every instinct said to close them.

2015 was the hardest year of my life, but I can say that I lived it deeply. I leaned into the storms and kissed the ground each time I washed ashore. Thank you for being my shipmates, my lighthouses, my anchors, my stars in the night sky.

Bless this wild, fragile existence we share – now and in the year to come.


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