In the blink of an eye, the end of the year—and the end of the decade—is upon us.
These milestones quietly reverberate through our house; imperceptible, constant tectonics building toward events we can't predict. A cursory review of 2019 (instagram.com/mcm_pnw/) reminds us how jolting those changes can be.
We lost people this year. Scrolling through their photos proves there's no expiration date on hurt powerful enough to bring tears months later.
There were highs as well, most often defined by the life-affirming things we got out and got done. A 25k race in January, an insane seven-week training block in March and April leading to a 100k gut-punch in May.
After that, and by design, the outdoor activities became easier, more restorative. They coincided with children leaving home on journeys of their own, redefining our family in ways we may never fully find the edges of.
It's quieter now. There's more breathing room for music while I make dinner; for a few pages of a book in the evening; for writing instead of watching a screen.
There's no logic to wanting any year to end, any more than there is to believing the next one will be better. As always, time unspools and events transpire, unmoved by our need to put them in boxes.