And what a long, strange trip it's been. I've never been one to let moss grow under my feet and this year has been no different. Well, maybe a little different because I've also never followed rules and recommendations so strictly as I have over the past year.
Since my last birthday post, I've grown used to talking heads and a paperless society, two things that have not fed my extroverted personality. But suffice it to say that I've coped.
I once held a job as a telephone operator and in that job, learned that future communication would take place on screens, that we would be able to see the person we talked to, that there would be no use for the phones that were connected to a wall jack. Who knew we'd come through this year of endless video chats, Netflix series, Facebook Live events. It almost makes me want to hear the ring of a rotary dial phone, pick up a receiver and talk through a mouth piece; to have the other party seep into my consciousness.
In my professional life, the gratitude list is long is long. My writing colleague (she calls me her writing wife) came up with an ingenious way for us to continue to meet, even when our favorite bookstore was closed. Both avid walkers, we continued to meet in all kinds of weather, feeding our need to keep forging ahead with our own words.
Clients with stories to sort through have continued to trust me. Workshops have gone off-much to my surprise-via Zoom. I attended a virtual workshop through my beloved Vermont College of Fine Art, and while I missed the emerald green of the campus in Montpelior, cocktail hour on the dorm steps, my workshop mates joined from Israel, Vegas, Seattle, and St. Paul.
Several years ago, I happened upon a gallery exhibit in New York City's Penn Station. The artist, Ahae, a South Korean photographer, had detailed the world outside one window of his home. Heron, deer, sunrise, sunset, he captured the light in all the seasons. Over the past year, I've grown used to looking through the picture window of my home. I've grown used a study of life from there. I realize the breadth and depth of a world in which the sun rises and sets no matter what I do or say.
Yesterday, I laid on the floor with my six-month-old granddaughter. She has found her toes and appeared curious that I found mine, laying next to her. I catch her in moments like this and am overwhelmed by the fact that if the entire world fell away, as long as little Eloise were by my side, her brilliant smile, her sweet cheeks, her soft rhythmic cradle cap still pulsing with life, that I am complete.
Most pointedly, I've learned that love comes in so many colors, like the facets of a diamond. The lyrics of that Beatles' song that I've heard and sung all to often in recent years for friends, takes on its own meaning for me today. But one burning question remains: Who are Vera, Chuck, and Dave?