I’m still around.
I’ve watched a new year roll in, filled with promise and positively bursting with change.
I turned a whole year older. 34 years since my Mum’s waters broke all over a chair in an expensive French restaurant at The Rocks in Sydney (true story).
Something about this New Year’s and my birthday that followed soon after felt like a do-over.
I’m not big on cosmic ju-ju but something sure feels “new”. I can’t even find a better word for it.
I have been navel gazing like a motherfucker.
Pondering life in general, feeling like my brain is a snow globe that someone shook up and now I’m waiting for all of the stuff to settle.
It’s not a bad feeling. I know the growth a year can bring.
As I watched my kids play on the beach at sunset on the last day of my 33rd year I was able to let go of some stuff.
It felt like the blustery winds blew the cobwebs away and my mind was clear. Decluttered.
And for a moment I was able to see the shiny “newness” that was right there.
That is always there.
And I was moved by it’s grace.