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Our New Year’s Day was so quiet that none of us moved. We didn’t stir from bed or couch or floor. We lay there yesterday as if time stood still. Yesterday, New Year’s Day, which is dedicated to celebrating the passage of time, we stopped time. We didn’t go anywhere or do anything. We laid around with piles of books and magazines and DVDs. Watch another episode of Battlestar Galactice? Sure, why not. We have all the time in the world.

In my head I had planned a New Year’s post reviewing the events of 2007, all the things I had accomplished (or not) with brief descriptions of praise or apology. That was the plan. And it stayed a plan — some amorphous idea in my brain that may or may not ever exist. It didn’t exist, and it didn’t matter. Would you or I really miss a list of the doings of my life? Or a list of plans for the next year? I wouldn’t. Don’t.

Instead, I’m noticing this moment right now. This one. Writing to you. Listening to the navy beans in the pot on the stove bubbling to softness and headed to a pot of Boston Baked Beans. I hear the pages of Brian’s guitar catalog turn while he eats banana bread. The toilet tank is overflowing again. The rabbit is tossing an alfalfa cube around her cage. Rosie stares outside at the bright, newly fallen snow. Ben…where’s Ben? “He’s on his bed.” Brian says, answering a question I did not ask aloud. Rosie blinks. Brian sighs. I write. My New Year is right now in this new moment. Hello, New Year.

cat asleep


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