It is 9:20 am, New Year's Day, in the year of our Lord, 2011. I've always wanted to say that—"In the year of our Lord". It sounds weighty, as though I'm the narrator of a movie or something. At any rate, I'm the first one up this morning. Chelsea needed to go out to pee and indicated this by banging her tail loudly against my side of the bed. After all, she didn't stay up until 3:00 am talking and drinking way too much champagne. Since she can't open the door herself, it seemed only fair that I should drag myself out of bed and let her out. Then, since I was already up, I fed Mystic and Emma and let them out of the garage. They are such creatures of habit. Even though it is drizzly outside they prefer to eat on the picnic table under the umbrella rather than stay in the garage where it is dry. One dream I have, though it probably won't happen this year, is for allergy shots to work well enough for my daughter Bri, that she and the cats can once again live in the house at the same time. I'm aware that this dream may never come true, but isn't that we even bother to dream? Things can change. Miracles happen. I do believe that is true.
So here I sit at the dining room table, all alone. I can hear the heater and the quiet fan of my computer. Monet, my lone little one-legged yellow canary, jumps from perch to perch as birdseed clatters from his feeder onto his makeshift cardboard ledge. Perhaps it's only my imagination but I think he misses his companion, Thiebaud. My sweet orange canary died two days ago. They were really good buddies and had never been apart.
Earlier this morning I could hear the rain on the skylight upstairs above the second floor landing but now, even that is silent. This is rare, that the house should be this quiet. Early morning calm is something I love. Something I crave. Often this is what it takes to hear my quality thoughts—the charitable and kind ones that rise to the top when the water is still; the ones that notice little details and smile because of them. When the house is raucaus with the TV blaring, people teasing or laughing, bickering or using accusatory tones, that's when the only thoughts of mine I can hear are critical—snarky actually. Those are the shouting, screaming thoughts, not ones a writer cares to put on the page. And I have finally admitted that's what I am. A writer. Feels good to say that, especially on the first day of the year, on the first day of a new decade. I am hereby declaring, this decade will be mine. It will be a decade where I will allow my voice to be heard—my written voice. It is time.
I make no promises about what my blog will become this year, or how often I will post. I've tried that before and with little success. This year I'm bidding adieu to guilt. But I'm feeling it is time to focus my blog more. I will still ramble and post photos from time to time. But I think I want to make this more of a place where I come to write—where I share my thoughts and my stories. I'm also planning to begin posting podcasts of my stories and of some of the chapters of the book I'm working on. I've done voiceover work in the past and am feeling a desire to get back into it. What better place to start than here?
So that's it for this morning—the sum of the thread of my thoughts. We all have a brand new shiny year stretching out ahead of us. It's thrilling and a wee bit scary to imagine the possibilities of what this year will bring. I hope you'll stick around here with me for the ride. What are your thoughts as you face this blank page entitled "2011"?