This is the first time I’ve ever entered a year by wondering how many losses it will bring us. I’ve struggled with suicidal ideation my whole life, and not even once have I greeted a brand new year by wondering if I will make it to the end of it. But here we are. And wondering feels like all we do these days, doesn’t it?
As the covid death toll rises, the stories get closer and closer to home. Our tiny church has lost a most beloved member to this plague. I’ve watched friends deal with way too many family deaths in far too short a space of time. And I have to wonder: are some of us dying of broken hearts? I heard of two sisters who died within a week of each other. Just two towns over from where we are. If my sister died, I would die of a broken heart. I don’t think I could fight covid while nursing a shattered psyche.
I am scared. I am scared for myself, and I am scared for you.
And so those usual resolutions seem a little out of place this year. Lose weight. Get fit. Make more money. Save for a car. Buy a house. Travel the world. Those big, loud, ambitious things. They might be for next year. Or the year after.
This year I’m going quiet.
I’m going to bake more, because it makes the kids happy (and me – I made the most amazing banana cake last weekend!)
I’m going to cook more, because food is one of my biggest joys and honestly my poor husband has been picking up too much of the slack in that department.
I’m going to read more.
I’m going to write more.
I’m going to talk about mental health more.
And play with the thousands of photographs I have on my computer.
And only leave the house when absolutely necessary.
And buy contact lenses so that the whole mask wearing thing can suck less.
And I’m going to be grateful for every day that I get to be here.
Because too many people didn’t make it through 2020 and we don’t know how 2021 is going to go. So I’m going to be grateful.
I hope that you will be too.