I guess it’s tradition now—the quiet, solitary walk into the woods, on the first morning of the first day of every year. Do anything often enough and it becomes a ritual, transformed from mundane to quasi-mystical. It sounds hyperbolic I know. But I do sense something like a second layer covering the world on each of these very private annual outings. Perhaps it’s the weight of all that has passed...or all that lies ahead. What’s ever clearer to me is that we are accumulations, drawers overflowing, the good and the bad pushed into one great big pile. And every year we lay it on—a little thicker, deeper. A mess but still a treasure trove. This is where we dig for inspiration after all—the spark to the bright lights or black fire.
I came very close to writing a diatribe on the Madness of King George today—a metaphor to release the anger I felt at witnessing the barrage of insanity, after just a few days of turning off the news. But that black fire... it’s damn hard to contain. If you’re not careful it will consume you whole. Then I read my friend Ian McDonald’s blog post, slightly in awe of his intense organizational skills, and thought “ok...breathe”. Our world still turns, despite the sonic booms.
I’m not officially back yet (the holidays end on Monday for us) so I’ll keep upcoming projects for the next post. Instead, here’s a journal of sorts—a very messy visual hodgepodge of our holidays.
2018 is in.
Let’s get crackin’.