Hullo abandoned digest. How are you.
Do you recall disclosing that my goal for 2020 was to leave the house more? Well.
Do you also remember crafting up the nicest of day planners and charting out the full year ahead? To follow my dreams? And posting that giant pre-filled calendar on the wall? Wellllllllll.
You don’t grow up with an Old Country Grandmother and avoid the earnest ability to blame yourself for bringing about the pandemic. It’s not egocentric, it’s just plain facts. My preparedness cursed us all. It’s obvious.

I had zero capacity to document 2020 year with words. Despite the horror of it all, our corner of the world was lucky and I was lucky. The luckiest. Knock on wood. I had the fanciest house, the sought after property, the looks-good-on-paper (and in person) spouse. I escaped. Into the wilderness (the one within [when I could find it]). The amicable (they said it couldn’t be done!) dissolution of a marriage. The fairly nice new acreage. The sweet little gingerbread house. Romance. Intrigue. Best friends. So Many Flowers. So much good during an awful year. You don’t grow up with an Old Country Grandmother and avoid the guilt of your own luck while those around you suffer.

I do not know what fresh hell awaits us. All of my plans are tentative. All road maps charted with disappearing ink. The possibilities kept at a thin whisper. I endeavour to turn around at some point and see something that looks like a home. I’m grateful for the prospect. I’m grateful for the space. I thank my Old Country Grandmother for the grit and the audacity.

2019 was well documented, intentional, encouraging and prepared me well for my grand adventure elsewhere. I hope, meekly, that the winter gives way to an encouraging warmth that allows for healing, growth and all layers of groundwork.