4/365

Here’s to the cold. The chill. The bite. The freeze-shatter. Here’s to the bed. The smoke signals in the sheets. The tango of consciousness. The rind of dreams. Here’s to the shell. The inside. The Hallow. The tug. Pull away. Here’s to the dark and the undertow. The drafts- both back and over, they are infinities like this. Here’s to the palace. The shine. The neon lights of everything that comes gold plated. Here’s to the bag, and the holding, and the areas of containment. Here is the walls broken. Windows shattered. Holes torn in fences. Chain link or picket, you always see through their bullshit. Here’s to seeing through bullshit. To passing what is not for us like Washington on The Delaware. To laughing in the beast’s face. Here’s to ‘I dare you.’ To ‘watch me do the impossible,’ To ‘watch me do it again, but this time better,’ Here’s to ‘I’ll be better,’ 

January 4th, 2019

3/365

Here’s to the breath. The let go. The close your eyes and jump. The leap of faith. Here’s to the trust.  The years of heart mending. The summers of turbine and treadmill and tater tots. Here’s to hammocks. The suspended in mid-flight. The swimming pools. The coffee-lots and lots of coffee. Here’s to the uphill climb. The hard fight. The easy win. Here’s to the piano- out of tune. The bend and off-center hang of the note. The quake of the echo. The sound crack.  Here’s to the shedding of ashes. The glow of the burn. The glitter of night spark. The embers of the coal. The fissile. The talk fester until dawn. Here’s to the talk. The talk back and talk loud. The talk to occupy space. The talk yourself out of invisible. The weave and spin into being seen and heard and less unforgotten about. Here’s to the braid, the two strand courage crown. The intricate interlocking of ‘this is who I am’ and ‘this is who I have been,’ and ‘this is who I will soon be.’ 

January 3, 2019

2/365

Here’s to the internet. To entertainment. To Television. To shows. Here’s to bingeing Television shows via the medium of the internet for the purposes of entertainment. Here’s to drama. To doctors. To blood and brain tumors. The prognosis. The fight, the race against the clock, the race against time. The ability to stop the hunger of sickness. The thirst of grief. To find the broken of the gear and give the tick its sound again. Here’s to standing, even when alone. In solidarity. In famine. Even when flanked by doubt, and fear, and rage and the echo’s of ‘you don’t compromise a little on having a baby.’ Here’s to the circulation. The concentric movements of life’s passageways. Here’s to saving. Saving a life. Two lives. Three lives. A multitude of lives. To always saving others. To saving ourselves. Here’s to train wrecks, and plane crashes. To lost shoes, and hearts in boxes. Here’s to pick me. choose me. lose me. To the General Surgeon who is anything but general. The Orthopedic Surgeon who has super glued and duck taped herself together. The Cardio Surgeon misnomered as heartless.  The Trauma Surgeon with the softest core. The thoughtless Neuro Surgeon. Here’s to Grey, all three. And Sheppard. Yang, and Burke, and Hunt. Altman. Bailey. Webber. Kerev. Sloan. O’Mally. Torres. Stevens. Montgomery. Robbins. Avery. Wilson. And Kepner. Here’s to all of them. The Carousels that never stops turning. 

 

January 2nd, 2018

1/365

Here’s to new beginnings. Fresh Starts. The turning of pages. Here’s to making dreams, and wishes, and above all, love. To making a life you are proud of. Proud to claim. Proud to stand upon. Proud to call your own. Here’s to having space, and owning it. Here’s to being proud of the space you own, occupy, create for yourself, demand, and dwell in. Here’s to the life's work-both having it, and actively doing it. Here’s to doing what you love, and loving what you do. Here’s to the smaller things. The things which fill the places, our places, us. The mirrors that grace us with our own reflection. May we be met with glittering smiles and radioactive confidence. The chairs that hug the low of our backs when our body ceases to, that hold the thunder of our thighs, the tightrope of our arms. The doors we paint with our names. The bookshelves and the hands that brought the wood. Shaped the wood. Molded the wood. Crafted the Wood. The nails, that once repeatedly smashed and beaten into submission, still continue to maintain their strength. Their dignity. The holes, the dents, the narrow and deep and small vessels of absence give us the ability to hold everything together. It is by our broken surfaces that we are allowed to build and create and be the ambitious freaks we are. Here’s to learning, and growing; life’s classroom. Here’s to lessons on how to find the success we once lost. Lessons on letting go of the failures that haunt us. Lessons on how to be more human, how to be less afraid. Lessons not in learning how to unfall, but rather, climb back up with grace, and love, and redemption in our pack pocket. May our lessons never stop unfolding. May our growth never be stunted. May we never forget to accept the baptism of renewal. 

Here's to 2019...

Cheers....

January 1st, 2019