Burning the Old Year

So much of any year is flammable. lists of vegetables, partial poems. Orange swirling flame of days, so little is a stone.
 lists of vegetables, partial poems.
 Orange swirling flame of days,
 so little is a stone.

My life has been set on fire at least three times in the last two years: a cancer diagnosis, a broken engagement, a pandemic.

That's quite a run.

Here's what I've learned about fires, both literal and metaphorical: They are terrifying and, when powerful enough, impossible to control. At the end, all that remains are the things that can't burn. New life grows by consuming the ashes of the old.

Throughout a year marked by so much devastation, loss, and uncertainty, I have had the great privilege of spending much of my time sitting still and watching things grow.

Herbs. Pups. Rays. Days. Hair. Bread. Hope. Dead. Love. Words.

That's quite a year.

Here's what I've learned about growth: When a seed is under the soil it looks like nothing is happening. During this time of nothingness roots reach downward and stems search for the light. Then one day the plant emerges from the soil, and it is astonishing that it has grown so suddenly. The fast growth is exciting, but the slow growth is necessary.

Now I want to make some suggestions to myself while I traverse this country I call mine.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,

only the things I didn't do

crackle after the blazing dies.

"Burning the Old Year," Naomi Shihab Nye