It’s been far too long. I haven’t written here for months and months, and I suppose I should write a little about how much I missed my blog, and how much I longed to be able to share myself with the world again, but the truth is, I didn’t.
I mean, don’t get me wrong; I love my blog. I love that I can log in sometimes months later and find (as I did today) that people have left me messages telling me how much they support me and how much they love my writing. It’s gratifying, and somehow, those messages of support from you make me feel like all of this makes sense somehow. Thank you. It means the world to me that you feel that way about my writing; it’s humbling and energising at the same time.
I also discovered that I have gained 80 new followers over the past four months. Thank you, all of you, for following me, and for reading what I have to say, and for clamouring for more. I really am smiling from ear to ear; this blog now has 696 followers, and that is beyond brilliant!
But to get back to the reason why I didn’t miss my blog. It’s quite simple. I didn’t miss it because I was too busy being overwhelmed by life.
It’s been a difficult few months, and there have been a lot of changes. I barely know where to start updating you all. Suffice it to say that too much has happened; I have leased my lovely crazy kitchen-in-the-basement home to a very nice couple and have moved to my friend Saran’s house. Well, technically, it belongs to his parents, and they’re not using it, so here I am, living rent-free in a house that is much too big for just me (and three cats). It really is simply enormous; even the rooms have rooms here, if that makes sense. Three (four if you count the ground floor) floors of rooms; I’ve already had to cordon off quite a few of them and place them firmly off-limits to the cats. The last thing I want is for them to wander into one of the rooms where Saran’s family are storing gorgeous antique furniture, and huge big tapestries, and floor-to-ceiling paintings, and have them use them as scratching posts. I shudder at the thought!
So, in between the move, and all the stresses normally associated with moving, and saying goodbye (for the couple are leasing to buy) to my old home, there have also been a few other stressful things that my family and I have had to deal with. What with one thing and another, it was an absolutely rotten Christmas. I really never want another Christmas like that again, ever. What is usually one of my favourite holidays felt unendurable, and I longed for it all to be over more than once. Never again.
However, it is the New Year, and it feels just that – new. It feels freshly laundered, and clean, and sun-dried. It feels like I want to roll about in it and be grateful for being alive. I know people say that it’s still your life, and it’s just another day; well-meaning people can’t resist reminding us that absolutely nothing has changed, and that nothing will change unless we make the change happen. I understand all of that, and I do agree for the most part, but I disagree with them just a little bit. I know it’s still my life, but for some reason it just does _feel_ like a new year. It feels hopeful, and different, and just good. I know it won’t be perfect; it never is. Perfection doesn’t exist. But I think this year will be wonderful because I feel like it will. I’m quietly hopeful. Sometimes, I’m even exuberant.