How Life Intervenes
New Year's Morning started out just the way I liked. A cup of coffee, a bit of writing, 45 minutes of practicing and learning a few new flute tunes. The flute was behaving perfectly, for once, so I kept playing for a while, and worked on tunes I hadn't played in years. Eventually I wandered upstairs out of the practice room pondering my simple resolutions, the goodness of having a quiet morning, and anticipating the potluck planned for later that day with musician friends from way down Cape. In the kitchen, I whistled softly inside as I poured ingredients for an Irish soda bread into a big stainless steel bowl. The house was silent, except for the whoosh of occasional passing cars outside.
Peacefully bouyant, I texted my friend, "Fresh start!"
She texted back, "Hey! I hear you're playing at church today!"
As in, scheduled to play the New Year's Day offertory and anthem in like 15 minutes. And the entire family asleep upstairs. And me in my pajamas. And the dry ingredients unstirred before me and flour all over the counter. New Year's reverie broken. The instant clamping of the solar plexus. The warm expansive energy pulling out of all of my extremities and compressing into a thin firey column that shot straight from my chest out of the top of my head.
And that's when I was reminded: This year will likely be a lot like all the other years. And that's ok.