I Am Dana Andrews

It’s a drizzly day in the bustling city named Boston. While buzzing down Eighth street I feel a sudden sadness as I approach an underpass. I notice numerous people living their daily lives. They have nothing on their calendars, for they have none.

Broken plates. The sound of shattered shards of fragile china landing on the distressed wooden table facing the mosaic artist. They used to be fine china plates dressed in a beautiful floral pattern in shades of grey and black. Some fall into the depressions created by pieces of glass piercing the once-smooth surface. They emit a muffled sound, some even landing upright, creating another pit in the wood.

So many times. Too many times. More years than anyone should give-and lose.  With each try, with each step the rungs on my ladder fell away. I tumbled down and landed at the bottom, albeit not the very bottom. There was always a subfloor. Sadly, the basement below always waited to greet me.

Feathers. They are everywhere. Our chicken coop is adorned with a fluffy, feathered floor rug. How nice.

Making their way in all different directions are our seven chickens and Mr. Fancypants, our grey used-to-be-feather-clad rooster. Still, for my sweet birds, nothing else has changed. Despite this yearly occurrence, the pecking order remains in place; crowing and clucking sounds echo from the wooden walls of their coop, and I celebrate the few blue and sometimes peach-colored eggs they lay this time of year. Winter hovers over our yard with cold winds and sometimes even snow. Nature is in charge here.

I'm not sure if you are still alive. We haven't spoken in at least 5 years. But that's okay. That's what I needed. I've moved on. I had to. Because you abused me.

I can't speak for you. But as for me, with eyes wide open and a firm foothold, I embrace the start of a brand new year.

Change is never easy. Some choose to shuffle through life saddled with remnants and refuse from their past. It feels familiar, driving this UHaul packed from floor to ceiling with boxes and bags of unchallenged feelings, faults, and fears. Even if earlier times were never what they wanted or would have chosen, they settle. With a stubborn grip, they’ll hold onto and repeat all the yesterdays they've ever known.

“So nice to see you! Is everything going well? What are you up to?” That’s our typical greeting when I run into my friend Cindy now and then. This morning she told me she’s up to a new challenge; “Just a little jump.”

“Just a little jump.” Those words conjured up this blog post faster than a weathervane spinning in a hurricane.

I used to journal. Poetry, stories, remembrances, song lyrics, even eulogies. 

Sometimes journaling is therapeutic. Like a trusty old friend, it keeps our secrets and validates our fears. It demonstrates change and growth. It gives insight into where we used to be versus where we now are. It provides a reason to change or stay the same. It helps us clear the debris from our heads and the fallout from our hearts. But sometimes, it isn’t, or it doesn’t. Mine couldn’t