new new year, same sameness

We rang in the new year again last week, counting the one by revolutions of the earth and the other by revolutions of the moon. In the spirit of change I got my hair cut, stopped by boro hall to say a farewell to a guy moving to a different town, dropped a box at the thrift shop, and paid a visit to a closing Bed Bath. I bought a throw blanket and pillows, which I had come looking for, and found a mug storage case, an unfortunate gift from the Magi because I had just donated the mugs.

Our church discussion group happened to meet at the start of spring this month, and the topic was change. We talked about accepting and grappling with change and about the ways we stay the same. I went out with the dogs after for a long walk down the Wissahickon and thought about molting, metamorphosis, grief, forgiveness, and the feeling of waking up after a hibernation. I made nectar for the hummingbird feeder, filled the other feeder with sunflower seeds, and put out a bowl of corn for the squirrels. I lit a small fire on the patio kindled with dried out stalks of anise hyssop ignited by a scrap of paper I anointed with a drop of blood I drew from my finger. I sang a good morning to Huitzilopochtli, welcomed Ra back from his cruise, and thought about the fine print I'd pencil into the covenant I was making with the garden.

I felt mostly the same the next day, though my perspective keeps changing over time. I still feel adrift at sea, but the rocking of the waves promotes a sort of focus. Almanacking has been especially helpful for homing in on hobbies, through which my easily distracted brain moves so fluidly that their exploration itself seems a hobby. I've continued resisting pursuing new in favor of valuing what already is, which results in either a decluttering purge or a renewed commitment and interest, both outcomes producing what feels like a more refined, decisive identity. I've been revisiting tabletop games after what feels like a lifetime. I played backgammon with a guy who makes me want to sing songs, and Telestrations and Speak Out with him and a group of friends I connected with at the start of these unpaid times.

Particularly well timed was St. Patrick's Day, falling close to the equinox yet far enough from 1 January I'd never made the seasonal connection. We started the celebration Friday night at a local brewpub that felt crowded in a cozy way. A friend and I remarked it felt like everybody knew everybody, and those we didn't know were friendly enough that we spoke to them as if we did. A band played and the singer smoked me out before a stargazing bike ride home. We picked up the party the next day with a pub crawl through Lansdale. We stopped at a distillery, a tavern, a brewery, and a restaurant that used to be an Irish tavern, with a detour to the crystal shop to visit with the owner. We made it back to the house of a couple who'd been out with us, and I ate all the fruits and vegetables they served while chatting with their dog. We sat in the backyard talking and listening to the Cranberries, reflecting on heritage and nationalism, all of which went into the fire. I filled up with water and edibles the next morning and spent the day in the liminal space.

And then we walked some more. Characteristically spring, the weather has been half rainy and half warm and sunny so half our time has been spent preparing to walk and the other half walking. I joined the church stream this weekend instead of going in person, and in our discussion after the service somebody asked about my hobbies and interests. I fumbled for a moment because that's what I do and in a flash wondered if it were possible to condense these reflections on that very topic into some clear, concise answer. The first thing that came out was walking, which is so obvious I forget it sometimes.

I also mentioned gardening, which I'm still contouring for this year. There are projects attracting me, and that voice of focus calling them distractions. I do want to add more to the herb garden and I'm increasingly interested in growing corn and sunflowers but I'm also looking forward to tending what's already there. I was worried the peach tree may have died in the cold blast we had back in December or that transplanting may have shocked it too much, but the opening of the buds stirred in me a sort of temperance to rein in my wandering mind and avail myself to upholding those promises of love and attention I'd just made a whole to do about over the cauldron.