We returned home from The Land of the Lotus-Eaters yesterday evening, so today I’m just catching up on all the holiday happenings in the ALI world. When I read Mel’s post this morning about the Creme de la Creme, and she mentioned which of her own posts “[summed] up the year for [her]” I wondered which of my own I’d choose. Biased by my current state, my first thought echoed this idea (from Dreaming of Diapers) of accepting the ongoing holding pattern and the pervasive uncertainty of now that I tried to articulate in “Spokes of the Wheel“. Then I opened my email and saw that WordPress sent me my annual stats report, which really did a much better job of capturing 2015 at a glance. Oh, my, what can happen in the interval of a single revolution around the sun. My first post of the year was an honest and sort of ranty thing about “morning” (pffftt!) sickness followed by February’s ultrasound photo and gender reveal, but, of course, that’s not what was prominently featured on the WordPress report. See for yourself:
Clearly, 2015’s main event was The Loss. As I scrolled through the rankings and numbers that spelled it all out so objectively, I exhaled a deep sigh of recognition, and that was followed by a slightly brighter notion: that these posts were not first on my list of considerations indicates considerable healing, and for that, I am proud of myself. If you’re willing to entertain a quick game of numerology (2+0+1+5=8) to honor this blog’s roots in the tarot, this is the card of the year:
(And how totally appropriate.) Yes, in 2+0+1+5 I was mauled by a lion and left bleeding in the dirt, but I didn’t die there. I scrambled to my feet and clutched him by the jaws. Strength, adaptation, and for that reason, the post that reflects the character of the year is probably “10 Ways to Continue to be a Functional Human Being (after your baby dies…)” because it’s about continuing to live when reality seems untenable.
Yet, somehow, I don’t want to leave this post in that sad, wounded space of April-going-on-May, not with a new year breezing through and some perspective blooming from spending a week in a developing nation where basic necessities like food, a roof, and medical care amount to privilege. I’d like to posit that “Universe and Pooh” (with its tattered little book that spoke of ill-use and aspirations) embodies the soul of the year my son died: love, pain, injustice, resilience, dogged perseverance, a sensual appreciation for all the life that goes on while we’re making plans, and hope because what else is there to do but keep going until you get to the end?
Happy New Year, my friends!