The Year of Doom

As if failure to select the Word for the Year isn't horrible enough, I grace the beginning of 2016. with yet another dismal shortcoming.  In all the craziness of our three-ring circus,  January pounced on me like a crouching tiger before I was able to formulate my New Year’s resolution!

No Word for the Year. No New Year’s Resolution. Does it get any more pathetic than that?

2016. must be the Year of Doom, I conclude.

 My whole year is ruined and it has barely started!

Whatcha writing about?, my husband leans over my shoulder while I glower at the screen of the laptop.  He is one of those people who doesn’t believe in New Year’s Resolutions, for which I forgive him every single year.

The Word of the Year, and how I failed miserably to select a word that will be my loadstar…

And what exactly is this ‘Word of the Year’?, he interrupts before I get too carried away.

I look at him, debating whether I should slap him or hug him.

And in that space in-between, I relax a little.  I breathe a little. And it finally dawns on me that despite all the busyness, chaos and lack of margin; despite the missing Word of the Year, and unarticulated New Year’s Resolution, the 2016. has actually been off to a pretty good start.

Perhaps not a brand new beginning.  Not a fresh start, but more of a cascading overflow of a narrative already in progress.

And, at this time, that’s good enough for me.

In fact, when I really think of it, it’s not just good-enough.

It’s actually good.

And it’s enough.