2021 And Done

In a fun little twist, 2021 didn’t suck for me.

I of course was engaged in the regular doom of modern life, in Portland, in America, in a pandemic, navigating a thousand heartbreaks of climate, racism, classism, capitalism …

But I purposefully avoided the news. I put extra care into my work, Nemo was buzzing. When I wasn’t toasting in the blue-light glow of my MacBook Pro I was swinging hammers trying to build a monument for my future. 

That, or dicking off. Swimming. Skating. Crinkling Rainier cans. Whatever fun you have when you’re still godless and child free in the first half of your 40s. 

The winning moment of the year involved July, me with cherry-red cheeks, simmering in a natural hot springs, cradled by aspen trees, soaking in the purple evening air of northern Idaho. What a pure moment — I’m always seeking that kind of oblivion. 

In an effort to recreate it I bought an inflatable hot tub for the back deck, becoming just another pandemic herd buyer, but whatever. I’ve had some nice splashes in that inflatable, but as you know it’s still missing the tectonic potion of a proper hot springs and the higher-order joy of summer vacation. 

As the new year cracks over the Northwest territory, a dark dawn, and wet — how we do up here in Oregon, I hope you have found whatever renewal and meaning you were searching for in your winter holiday ritual. Heading into ’22, here’s what I’m thinking about:

Uncertainty is healthy.

Imagination is required.

Question your cultural notion of self identity.

Be emotional and intuitive whenever possible.

More sunrises.

More stars.