This time of year lends itself to retrospection. Retrospection and butter. Perhaps in equal proportion. Too much of either will cause chest pains and the irrepressible urge to wear stretchy-pants.
I’ve always loved the hope and possibility held in a fresh new datebook. Clean pages waiting to be filled with deadlines and meetings and a kaleidoscope of notes archiving the mundane day-to-day things that fill a year. This year I’m swearing off the backward glances and jumping straight into the crisp, unmarked sheaths of the new year.
This is Brighid.
Brighid showed up via my baby sister. She looks like the kind of gal that would spur you on to adventure, doesn’t she? She’ll be overseeing the forward momentum of the next twelve months, advising me in the filling of those calendar pages, and providing general counsel. Questions? Concerns? Grumbles? Lob them in Brighid’s direction. She will hold all of the blame and the glory on her soft, cushy shoulders.
Crossing fingers, with Brighid’s help, this time next year we’ll all be chest pain and stretchy-pant free.