To life and death and rebirth and everything in between.
To love and hope and the horror of being alive.
To all those moments scattered in the wind.
To my life. And your life. Intertwined like air.
To discovery, to disintegration. To reclaiming that voicebox that is my own. To reclaiming that life of joy and fire and light that is my own. To owning my heart like a song. To burrowing fear deep in the soles of my shoes and still walking.
To Jamie’s life. Holding it in my hands. Learning to sit up. Learning to crawl. Learning to walk. Learning to communicate. Learning to eat. From 6 to 18 months, what a radical change. What a remarkable boy.
To the Waldorf school. Flashing into my life like a sharp rain. Flushing me out and growing me up and watering all those dusty bits of soil I’m learning how to take care of. How to accumulate. How to nurture. How to give. How to teach. How to listen. Be silent. Be connected. Be empathetic. Support and foster. How to love.
How to love.
To love. To never knowing its name. To never knowing how to do anything other than love.
To places, to people, to things. To objects on walls and solid feelings in hands and soft glances in dark rooms. To all those things I am and am not. To all the ways I’ll keep changing. To all the me I’ll keep me-ing.
To fear. To strength. To fruition.
To finishing my teacher training online. Bumbling away writing essays on a laptop while Jamie slept on my chest.
To creating the Terhune Instagram, becoming the photographer…wandering around endlessly taking pictures.
To writing. To creating that other instagram. To accomplishing some of the things I wanted to. Not all. Never all. Hardly cracking the list, really. To getting published. To my first poetry reading.
To my wedding. To that shitshow. To losing Kara.
To all the things I can’t write about. To all those moments stuck in space.
To Puerto Rico.
To pain and glory and wonder and stars. Not looking enough at them. Looking too much at them.
To swinging under a tree, chasing after Jamie, throwing him down slides, snuggling in bed with him, kissing his soft cheeks, carrying him in my arms until all my muscles ache.
To Bryan and all his lawsuits. To Dan moving to Princeton. To Bogad leaving Hun. Julia moving to California.
To the whole world getting flipped on its head.
To dancing and singing and laughing and running and never being able to catch up with my breath, or with my desire for more of it.
To music and drinking and stumbling and bumbling once again. Remembering what it is to smile.
To writing myself on fire.
To kisses, sweet and soft and aching.
To all of the things that get forgotten. To all of the things that never get said. To all of the things still waiting.
To the song still singing.
What a year. What a year. If I could say it in words. But nothing ever could. Nothing could ever replace the firehot, red-rolling, sideways-falling, collapsable, rhythmical, rotational, dysfunctional, walloping, wallowing wind tunnel of a year it’s been. And thank you for that. Thank you, strange life. Thank you, sacred life. This is lifeliving. This is the heart of the heart of the heart. This is love. In a form that is me. Let’s keep running. Past the past.
To fire, flood, rich soil, warm heart, soft rain, courage brain, nonsense train, all the places I’ve yet to feel my soul dissolve into. All the moments I’ve yet to wrap around my fingers, press against my skin and breathe into my lungs. All the kisses on the wind still waiting. All the beats of my heart still waiting to sing. All the magic and mischief and madness still waiting to burn alive. To catch fire. To swell out at the bottom and over at the top. To crash like waves. To whisk like wishes. To watch like words – pounding up at the shoreline. Whispering – here we come. Here we go. Here we go.
Here we go.
I am what I am what I am.