two thousand nineteen

As a lover of lists, I look forward to my once-yearly grand tally of each revolution round the sun. 2018 was a year of appreciating the struggle. And there was quite a bit. But there were also HIGH highs! Engagement! House! Book!

Just a few hours away from a brand new year, though, I can’t help but look ahead with the fear-excitement of a planner who loves clean slates and a chance to draw the most perfect picture.

Alas, the perfect picture is never really made, is it? We always regret that decision to dot our i’s with a heart in middle school, we spend hours sketching addresses for save-the-dates only to be slightly disappointed…or is that just me? Maybe this year I can not only embrace the struggle, but also welcome the harvest, whatever it may be.

Not to be mistaken for forced joy at life’s less-than-overjoying moments, welcoming the harvest means cooking with what you’ve got, even if it’s not your favorite veggies. This is not to say “make lemonade out of lemons”, because sometimes we just can’t. And that’s okay. Welcoming the harvest is about acknowledging when things don’t go exactly to plan, and then noticing that the earth has not stopped turning. Every crop is a lesson, an opportunity to learn. Welcoming the harvest is the decision to take it.

I’ve planted some major seeds in 2018. Let’s see how they bloom.

restful

a restful moment in january.

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a red ruby and a soaring american on a 26th birthday in february.

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too much on my plate in march.

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a mini-tour to new hampshire and a swim on stage in april.

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another fairytale princess in may.

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the trip of a lifetime and an engagement in june.

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sword-fighting pirates and reminiscing on italian adventures in july.

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dress shopping in august.

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first home purchasing in september(!!!)

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bostonian adventuring in october.

cape cod nutcrackering and book publishing (!) in november.

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a homemade stocking, two dancing queens, and so much good boo time in december.

 

Thank you for sharing this little corner of webspace with me. It has been a good eight (GASP!) years.

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