Gray again, which seems the norm right now. More like November than December but the weather is the weather and there’s not much to do about it. Rain later, apparently.
Here we are, poised in this week that always feels a little like a car on a train, closing in on the station. All that has come before falls away into the mist of memory as we gather our things and take down our bags and prepare ourselves to disembark.
Slow and trundling; so fast the landscape was merely a blur; sometimes the mild pace between, but rarely for long; and though we’re all on the same track, our mileage can vary.
I’ve had some rough, largely unpleasant years, so a new one looming raises a mix of emotions, among them, of course, trepidation. The unknown is the unknown.
I’d like to be hopeful about the year to come, but sometimes hope is a delicate, tiny thing, a firefly lost in the vast, sardonic universe, placed in a jar with a hint of amusement. Or sometimes squashed flat.
Lose enough fireflies and you hesitate to bring them into being.
We can view it merely as the turning of a calendar page, a click on the dial, another number up.
We don’t have to do anything, you know. Time will come and go as it pleases, however we try to box it in. The station lies ahead, and transfer we must.
I’m not sure we can call this wisdom, but if you, like me, find yourself looking at the signs and billboards as we start to slow in our approach, know you are not alone.
Have a wonderful Wednesday.
A Bit to Read 
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