|From the top of Mount Culter|
Last year, I realized that this year is leap year — so I spent today practicing leaping. Not literally because I made the poor choice of trying to leap across a frozen mountain. I do not recommend this. It is not advisable to attempt to climb a mountain (no matter how small it is) without clamp-ons when it is mostly frozen.
Still, I was determined to be outside. I was determined to try to leap. Again, this is not an idea on frozen ground. And yet, after realizing that this year was leap year, I had decided that this was my metaphor. I have a bunch of friends that have chosen their year. This is apparently a thing which I only know thorough Abbey of the Arts where Christine invites anyone and everyone to choose a word for their year. I had none. I couldn’t think of one even though I had wondered about it a lot over these past 12 days of Christmas.
I’ve had a blockade because as I’ve already said I can’t really imagine surviving this year. I know. Terrifying. More for me than it is for you. Trust me. But this fact made it impossible for me to imagine not only what I hoped to be born on Christmas but what I hoped might come in this new year. And then, I realized it was leap year. There is this extra day in the end of February. February. The month my mother died, there is this extra day. I don’t really know what to do with this. I don’t really know what to do with the fact that I’ll turn 33 at the end of the following month. All I can really do is leap. That’s what I’m going to try this year. I’m going to try to practice leaping.