I come to you with my hat in my hands.
2016 was hell.
And I can’t understand why. I began 2016 with a perfectly clean house. The counters were clear except for a letter, some coins, an orange and a pen.
The beds were made, the toilet sparkled and not a dirty dish could be found when 2016 came sneaking through the back door.
I thought we had a deal.
I thought it was cut and dried. Every book I have read about manifestation, every movie I watched about living on this dual plane, and every guided meditation I participated in has taught me that I get what I put out.
You know what I put into the world last year, 2017? I gave hard work, respect, honesty, compassion, dignity, cherishing, wonder, clarity, generosity, hard-earned knowledge.
I gave my full authentic self, 2017. I gave my fucking heart. I loved every minute of that hellish non-stop rapid ride with my whole mother fucking self.
I loved everything the only way I know how.
I cried when I was sad, even when I was terrified. I yelled. I poured my fucking soul – my bloody fucking soul, 2017 – into my art.
I sat in peace and enjoyed the god damned peace even when it came as I shook with exhaustion after warding off the fear to get to the anger which lead to the sadness, the sorrow, the grief.
I grieved with every fibre of my being that I knew existed. And some particles I wasn’t aware existed.
I allowed intimacy. Intimacy! I faced the vulnerability hangovers that Brené Brown talks about. Some were gruesome. But I got up off my face and I tried intimacy again.
2017, you don’t know me that well yet, but letting people into my inner circle is terrifying.
I did it anyway because 2016 told me that it was going to be okay. That I was working toward something amazing.
2016 lied. Almost every single big goal I had did not manifest. Some small ones, a few really big ones sure, but what about those other ones, 2016?
I put all I had into life in 2016 and all I got was healing, connection with good people after not trusting at all that good people existed anymore, sprinkles of happiness with mostly hardship and frustration and pain and a feeling like I was spinning my wheels.
And I damned well found gratitude for that feeling. With gritted teeth and resentment some days, but gratitude all the same.
So, 2017, I hope you don’t mind that my counters were piled with odds and ends, junk mail, empty boxes meant for later crafts, glue, sparkles and scissors when you blew through the front door.
I hope you don’t mind that there were dirty dishes piled high in the sink.
I hope you don’t mind that I hadn’t taken out last week’s newspapers to the recycling, or vacuumed the teeny bits of sparkle and other junk from the carpet, or made the beds.
Fuck, I didn’t even do laundry.
I was tired, 2017. I put my whole heart into everything I did last year. I went hard. I took carpe diem seriously, though I had to walk through the healing fire of fear first.
Be gentle with me, 2017. Please bring to me peaceful, easy and joyous intimacy, fun, laughter, serenity, lightheartedness, celebration, playfulness, gentle encouragement and love.
Love that comes to me with wholeheartedness and understanding. Love that is patient and accepting. Love that is authentic and tender. Love that is exciting without making me feel like I might throw up.
2017, bring me peace and joy and harmony and grace.
Bring me greater power to manifest the fruition of my goals that align with my true divine purpose.