She was my best friend. During that tumultuous middle school time, when every year seemed like seven, Jeri Lynne and I were thick as thieves. Puberty wracked our brains and overwhelmed our bodies, so we stood side by side and attacked the absurdity of the world with our only weapon – laughter.
Last night, at the stroke of twelve, we let go of 2014. For some this “letting go” held regret, for others celebration. I’m not sure where I was on the spectrum between the wistful romanticism of another year gone and the joy of charging full-bore around the bend into the unknown.
Now that we are into February of the new year, I’m at a place removed so I can adequately reflect on the year that was 2012. It has taken the better part of a month to process, and even still, I’m not sure how to digest it all. But here’s a first crack at getting my thoughts, questions, and overwhelming confusion out of my head and into this blog.
I’m not opposed to the occasional cliché. They exist for a reason. Much like uncomfortable stereotypes, clichés apply in situations I wish they did not. And while clichés tend to amputate critical thinking, sometimes they simply cannot be avoided. Such is the case with my garden.