Holly Joliday

The title of this post is a sham.
In fact it is stolen by me, from the wits of Judy Moody's author, whoever Mcdonald.
I think Judy Moody is clever.

Only a few holiday scars remain;
one on my index, and one on my left middle finger.
Otherwise it was special and enjoyable.

The scars came from a champagne flute I crushed in my hand on January 1
I must have been trying to count the vodkas I had drunk the night before, and became terrorfied by the tally.

2009.
I don't much care for the number nine.
I like eight.
I like writing eights and making 8's, but nine I guess will have to do for the year.

Did I enter the year with indifference?
No.
I entered the year with hope.

Hope for steadfast love and the maintenance of a strong self.

It is sometimes frightening and always humbling that our ground can shake like it does.
Our own tectonic plates that shift and slide down different roads and towns.

Two thousand and eight was a year for those kinds of occurrences,
and you roll with the punches.

When I get to a hurdle, C or J or L or M are at another one entirely.
And so you cannot worry
and you cannot regret
and you cannot guilt

And it is funny to me that when you are in one safe spot that is filled with love and security that you will not.

So welcome new breath and new times ahead, whatever you hold.

The pictures above demonstrate my utter lack of photo sav;
John Henry spooning out dark chocolate and tangerines
The half lit tree
And Perri as Baboushka.