this, the year

recurring milestones have a way of gauging how far you've come.

every new year, when the ball drops and the countdown begins, so comes a recollection of the years before. each is a frozen encapsulation of a time, a place, a moment signifying the progression of a life: girlfriends dressed to the nines in a confetti wash, slow dances with a boyfriend, pot and pan clanging in pj's and bare feet with cousins, falling asleep against a friend on the floor as the ball drops on screen.

it would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know, how despondently a girl sees a year come to a close; how she feels as if she were dismissing some portion of herself into the muddled myst of memory. Yet, I have nothing else to tell; unless, indeed, I were to confess that no year, as of yet, has seen so much growth than this past one. twenty four sent me into a tailspin, plunging this tantalized small-town dreamer into the throng of a professional, downtown scene. and in this year a girl became a woman.

i'm compelled, however, to speak not of the past, but of what is to come. for now that i've flown, walking makes me restless. and now that i've sprouted wings, i must learn how to fly.

i love change. the alteration of a common course of action dishevels the stagnation of redundancy and ripples through all components of everyday life. and as i stand at the crux of such a catalyst, this new year, i've been given a new start, a fresh page, a blank staff. it's an opportunity to start anew, to relinquish the old self and begin again.

twenty five is the start of a new me. a bold me. a daring me. an honest me. i will stop scolding myself for missing personal publishing deadlines. i will write for me, just for me. i'll go with my gut. i will date men, not boys. i'll learn to love the wretched havoc that is monday morning. i will row to antelope island. i'll successfully grow herbs. i'll learn yoga and take indoor cycling classes. i will see the northern lights. i will apply to graduate school. I'll move to Boston or New York or Chicago. i will see more of the ocean. i'll pick up the violin again. i'll get a dog. i'll finish that damn novel. i will cross the lines i drew in my early twenties. i'll embrace my vulnerabilities. and i will learn the slow, elegant art of living.

© 2013 by Rachel Lowry. All rights reserved {photo source via}

1 comment:

  1. Looking forward to a year like this as well!