Drop the last year into the silent limbo of the past. Let it go,
for it was imperfect, and thank God that it can go.

—Brooks Atkinson
________________________________________________

The day snuck up on us, and just like that, it’s over. Christmas was good this year, cold and wintery like days of old. I spent the day at my brother Steve’s house. Along with my guest, my youngest brother Nate, who traveled down from Ontario, Canada. We had a large time. And plenty of delicious food. With the family scattered so far, among so many places, you gather with those who are close.

Brothers at table: Ira, Nate, Steve

Steve, Ira Lee, Nate and Clifford (not pictured) play monopoly.

Scrunched in: Nate and Steve take a ride.

Does the Amish mafia exist? Nate at the firing range Christmas afternoon.

And now one more year has come. And one more year has gone. It will be 2009 before my next post.

Last year, 2007, was a time of facing and absorbing a lot of bad stuff. Of tremendous loss. Of rebuilding my life from shattered foundations. I now look back on those not so long ago days and wonder sometimes how I made it through. Somehow I did. Like we all do, or most of us anyway, when adversity comes. Slog through it.

And the days of 2007 crept by, and a new year came. I welcomed it. Looked for better things. For joy. For the sun to shine again.

I found those things. At least some of them. And the sun did shine again, although the year had its share of dark days as well. 2008 was much better, a year of acceptance, a time of letting go, of clearing my head and moving on. I have. Pretty solidly, I think. Other than a few flashbacks on the dates of certain events. Things I wrote out. Things that snuck up and stirred deeply in the core of the memory and the heart. To be faced down and dealt with again. And perhaps repeatedly in the future, but with a bit less emotional upheaval each time. I hope. As the events of 2007 recede into the distance, further and further into the past. Covered by the layered days and weeks and months. And eventually years.

I remain convinced that time does not heal deep wounds. Pain diminishes, but the roots always exist. Buried, way down. Once in awhile, triggered by some thread of memory, or the shock of a nightmare, they stab for the surface again. Like weeds. And like weeds, they must be hacked out again and again.

And so things stand. The old behind. The new ahead.

In the past month, Ellen and I have reestablished some communication because of our mutual friendship with Paul and Anne Marie. She is close to Anne Marie. We share our concerns and our support for them.

We’ve talked some, too. Through a veil of heavy sadness. About who we were and what was lost. The realization that Eden, however imperfect, cannot be regained. Once it’s abandoned. As it was. Engulfed by thorns, its desolate gates now stand, guarded by the fiery twin swords of memory and pain.

We met exactly ten years ago, on Christmas Day.

I will always care for her. And look out for her where I can.

I won’t say much more, other than it’s easier to be cordial than to remain in a state of perpetual rage.

With one exception. The one who used to be my closest friend. For him, I still have only seething venom. At him, the molten rage still smolders. For him, there is no cordiality. No warmth, no desire to reconcile.

Not that any effort to speak of has been made, by either of us. I would recoil if I met him. So I try not to.

Which may be right. Or it may be wrong. But it’s where I am.

He walks the earth alone. Devoid of the long term relationships that defined his life. And the one for which he threw it all away. Devoid of the meaningful human inter-actions that sustain us all. Alone. Pursued by the virulent demons that torment his soul. Alone, cursed, the mark of Cain upon him. Until he chooses to remove it. Which he alone can do.

And that’s all I choose to say about that.

Other than that little brooding spell, I’m doing well. Really.

Emotionally, I’ve got a handle on things. Mostly. See my counselor once a month, the only truly, absolutely safe place in my world. Working to the place where the things written above can rest. I’ve made progress. What I wrote above was about one-tenth of what I would have said six months ago. So that’s progress. And I’ll get there. Over time. To where even that last ten percent can be laid to rest. For good.

Physically, I’ve kept off those 45 pounds now for going on three years. With some mild fluctuations during holidays, such as now. Still hit the gym regularly, as often as I can. “Doc” and I have made our peace and are friends again. I don’t see him often, but when I do, he tells his old tall tales, like he used to. He’s teaching me some new stretching exercises. For my lower back. He’s good. It helps. We respect each others’ use of the sauna. Peace reigns at the gym. For now.

I’m back to Chestnut Street Chapel on a pretty regular basis. Except for the odd Sunday mornings when I feel sinful and sleep in and don’t attend church at all. It’s a cool, diverse little group. Not diverse as in politically correct, but truly diverse. From plain and non-plain backgrounds. Currently the church is in search of a pastor. The lay members fill in occasionally and preach, something I don’t have to worry about, what with my marital status and all.

And so another New Year comes. Another fresh slate. For all those resolutions. To take another crack at it, to do better.

But I’m pretty ambivalent about it all. Don’t have a lot of great plans or anything. And no new resolutions. Just keep plugging away where I am.

It should be an interesting year. Economically. Even as the One enters his office as the most powerful man in the world. To the accolades of the craven press and the fainting masses. With his utopian socialistic dreams. It should be interesting. And perhaps a little scary. Not that fear should paralyze us. Just be aware. And prepared.

The days and weeks and months will roll by like they always do. By this time next year, some few of us won’t be here. Will have passed on. It could be anyone. Me. You. Or friends we cherish.

The living will keep going, like they always do. Absorbed with the details of daily life. The constant grind. And the joys too, the unexpected little things that pop up and surprise us.

In one area, I’m not ambivalent. And that’s the writing. It’s what sustains me, the pressure valve that releases the gathering steam. I would have been lost without it these past ninety weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since my second post, back in April, 2007. For ninety weeks now, I have posted every Friday. A remarkable thing. Exciting too. For me, at least. I’ve never maintained such discipline before. In anything. In all my life. It feels good.

I’ll keep churning out the occasional sketch. And the occasional brooding screed about what’s bothering me. And the stuff that’s happening around me. And, of course, the final Elmo Stoll essay. To ye of little patience, that should be done in early 2009. January or February. But note the word, “should.” It’s not a promise.

I write not to change the world. Or make it better. Or worse. I write because I want to, because deep down, something stirs, something that prompts me to write the things I have lived and seen and felt. The little things that stir the recesses of memory, the things that will be forgotten if left untold.

I say it sometimes, but not often. Don’t want to get tiresome. But it’s fitting in this last post of 2008. And that is “Thank you” to my readers. I appreciate every one. The time you take, weekly or sporadically, to read what I post. I’m honored and touched. Truly.

Last spring during a period when I was feeling down, a friend emailed me. “Keep writing,” he said. “If you write it, they will read.”

He was right. He’ll probably feel wise when he reads this. But that’s OK. He was.

I’ve kept writing. And you’ve kept reading. Thanks for validating his advice.

All the best to all of you in 2009.

And Happy New Year.