Monthly Archives: December 2012

Ring Out the Old; Scream in the New


Nothing says “transformation” more loudly than New Year’s Eve. To put an end to the tiresome old year and usher in the new one with music, bubbly, childish delight and goofy noisemakers, kissing strangers, moving into the unknown.  Procrastination collapses and rises again as a resolution, Like Jesus busting out of the tomb.   Rebirth a possibility – even a realistic expectation. Salvation in the minute hand.

And even though we question whether old acquaintances should be forgot and never brought to mind, in truth we want to forget and we do. The road rage driver who cut us off, the bank error that caused such a nightmare, the friend who insulted us, the in-law who doubted our ideas, We raise a glass and let that roll off our backs, It’s gone, part of the old. Let it go.

Instead, the light of hope flickers to life in our ideas. We let ourselves think new thoughts, allow ourselves to reframe old habits. Jump though the small window of minutes ticking away to land on a new street, heading in an unknown direction. It’s as glorious as fireworks and excitement rises inside us, rivaling the foam in our cup when the cork gets out of the way. The old out of the way.

Oh Lord, let me bubble over tonight and become new as the minute hand reaches toward heaven.

Speaking of New Year…

It’s so easy to let time drift by, or rush past, or happen to us without intention. Without dreams.

What do you think will happen to you this year?


Widow. Window.


I see her reflection as she walks past the mall shops,

Head slightly bent,

Looking down.

Her chin is thickening; her waist too,

And the stylish hairdo has the shimmer of silver beneath the brown

if you look closely.

But you don’t look closely.

In fact, you can almost imagine that she is on the inside of the glass,

Browsing among the colorful throw pillows,

the shelves of neatly stacked wines,

the dresses and scarves and belts within reach to wear to a party,

The Before Life.

Inside the glass.

For a minute you can’t tell.

But then the inevitable rhythm distinguishes her from the changing scenes and bright reflections as she walks, shoulders a little stooped, looking straight ahead. Not browsing. Black sweater starting to lose its shape.

I see her stop to watch a flock of ravens swoop down from the sky and gather, nodding and squawking at each other; pecking here and there, jostling for recognition and approval, showing off shiny black coats. She pulls her sweater over her low breasts and rising stomach.

With a start, I feel the softness of the wool, the stretch around my hips. I recognize the eyes.

It’s me.

In the After Life.

The widow is me.

The Children of Sandy Hook School

Visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.

The mysterious Santa Claus was about to sneak into their warm, safe homes

and bring presents!

A  wonder!

What thing is this?

But instead, a broken man got an evil impulse

And sneaked into their school.

Not safe.

And bullets danced in their heads, their hearts.

Making us all wonder.

What thing is this?

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