We’re not only standing upon the precipice of a new year, but a new decade…and the pulse that has been beating as 2020 approaches, has been heartening. It swells with an understanding that great things have been had and are yet to come…a palpable hope…that we’ve peeked the strength of one, the mighty of youth in age, heart and mind, and the wonder of the grand design…and we can all be a quintessential part of the thrive in the next 52 weeks and beyond.

I suppose it may be seen as more a daunting task, and that some may scoff at the idea…to be part of the thrive…that the sheer simplicity of it could be the challenge, and yet, that’s what makes it all the more necessary. A challenge, indeed, for you…for the we…to be a worthy component of the answer…of the whole.

So it seems, we start at kindness. We often forget that kindness is not only an outward act, but an inward one as well. One of the kindest acts we can commit to is silence…and that seed of silence, if willing, can grow into empathy, which in turn, will encompass our every thought and action for others and for ourselves.

Kindness comprises acceptance and ownership. One of the greatest feats will always be accepting ourselves, imperfections and all, and owning who we are…which sometimes requires us to take stock of inauthenticity or intolerance, and seeking out the source of why such inequities of soul consume us, and then make the necessary alterations in order to make peace with ourselves. Kindness requires learning how to alter our internal narratives and speak from our truths. And not unsurprisingly, it often starts in a moment of silence, and that silence translates into showing ourselves the greatest of kindnesses…self-care…self-love. Never neglect yourself. Self-care is not selfish, it is our first line of defense in eradicating what exhausts, weakens, and ills our physical, mental, and spiritual well-beings.

Kindness is apologizing. It’s owning when we’ve been cruel or wrong or insensitive, and that includes remembering to apologize to ourselves, as it seems, we are often harder on ourselves for an unseen pressure that won’t matter a lick when we finally fade away to the memories of love. It’s important to note that apologies don’t have to be accepted, nor will they always be received, and that is not only okay it is sometimes necessary, but when you mean the words, the intent is conveyed…it’s only up from there.

Allow 2020 to be a healing, to inspire you, to be the year you own your strange and give it voice, to be a quiet, to be a catalyst for shattering glass ceilings, to give you the strength to face fears head on, to wash you in pride for great and small accomplishments…whatever the new year means to you, may it bring you incredible happiness and the opportunities to give and receive a wealth of kindnesses that allow you to trust in your role within this grandest of shows.

E. A. O'Connell. December 31, 2019

There’s never been a question, that first light calls to an innate thread within myself— a thread that stitches soul to flesh in the quiet place of shadow that whispers of mortality— that thread set to singing as the horizon sets itself ablaze, bathing landscapes, pregnant clouds, slate rooftops, in pink and gold— a view from distant height revealing reinforced cityscape glass, mirroring a long forgotten vacancy, where now towers scrape the ignited sky— even the dimmest of mornings, shrouded in storm or cloaked in fog, sets the world in a slow carousel of shifting shadows backlit by an ethereal glow, illustrating tales of unimaginable folklore, more often than not, lost to eyes blinded by a view of artificial blue light.

It was not surprising that my own children would hear the call of aurora— that they’d be found on countless mornings, small hands to glass, fingers seeking for what lies beyond the pane— standing outside, brains still dream saturated, unafraid of what could still be prowling the hedge, eyes to the horizon— enrapt by nature’s stained glass view through bare winter boughs or the silken curtain of summer green leaves— watching as dawning gold evaporates into hues of day.

I’m always head-full of Frost’s loaded words: “Nature’s first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold…” the most loaded for a parent landing heavy on the heart: “…nothing gold can stay.” It’s nearly impossible, truly unavoidable, not to notice how time is tumbling and gaining speed, taking with it the look of infancy, toddlerhood, and being a kid— and how I’m glimpsing more and more angles of my three growing up— and I want for time to slow its progression— but I know the folly of such a wish, the wasted efforts that equate to wasted time— no mortal has outsmarted time— but if you adjust your thinking, it’s no longer a game of strategy, of bettering the opponent, but rather a practice of our own pacing— that in those moments we want to stop still, capture, and keep— we should stop ourselves, shutting down all outside influences and destructive thoughts that steal us from that very moment we want to hold onto, and return to our senses to create a mental snapshot to carry with us— like that December morning, when the house was chilled, the Christmas tree a familiarly comfortable scent, speckled corvid caws vibrating beyond the window, my three standing in Jack’s bedroom, calling to me, “Mom! It’s all gold!” The entire bedroom momentarily awash in Dawn’s golden light— their faces lit in awe, their hands splayed on the gilded wall, their eyes mesmerized and trailing motes of dust in the glow, my barely audible plea, “How will you stay gold?”…in a world of unending sunrises marking the continuous passing of time, how will they stay gold…and the day-long searching giving way to a most simple realization, as twilight enveloped the land in teal and turquoise…never steal from them the desire to reach for and seek the source of what keeps them in awe— never stop them from taking it in, never tell them it’s like any other sunrise, never fill their heads with monotony, even if time isn’t on your side— allow them to wander within their curiosity and thoughts, to look towards insight of the enigma, and encourage them with the adventure of what the dawning of a new day will bestow— we keep them gold by holding onto or rediscovering what makes us gold, and in turn, we find a new define for the inevitability of time—

E. A. O'Connell. December 2019

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There’s a delay in my senses, a glitch of sorts, all for the one, that which speaks to me, “You will die.” Ghost trails follow the cards I raise and let fall, sillage of misfortune fades like time wasted. New days dawn from darkness, as shall I, for what speaks to my soul is aurora’s song, and the dreams I let slip my tongue, become the wilds that roam the sleep abandoned streets. From a distance, I see golden stars hovering amidst the barren December branches. As I draw nearer, I retell the tale, of forsythia blooms bending rules. I get lost in thought, staring at the silvery velvet magnolia buds, lost of bearings and degrees. I wonder if I’m as brilliantly resilient, as daringly deceptive, if what may seem a weakness, a loss in faculty, is in fact my bounty, and I’ll persist through harsh cold and brutal winter conditions to thrive into something exceptional. Oh God, how I love my imperfections. I wonder if the stars I see, that signify a blinding ache in my brain, are pregnant with my own wishes deferred. I wonder a novel from a single word. All I want from this age forth, is growth.

E. A. O'Connell

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My hands…black like electrocution, like energy that’s seeking an exit before exploding, my nails more like claws, blood beneath and staining the cuticles…a flash of insanity or clarity? in visions I sometimes can’t read…I slam the water off and realize I’m not breathing…I can’t detect my own heart beating…and then a stuttering ache reminding me of mortality…I sit…naked upon the shock of cold porcelain and wait for the world to settle about me…my hands once again pink and living tell of the tale in which I have to pull myself from the corpse, having to separate which eye I’m seeing through…swiftly disorienting…retrieving my bearings…I am the cursed one, built of broken minded pieces and faded souls in tatter, fashioned into a monstrosity of courageous proportions…I was once told in my youth, nothing’s more frightening than our ghosts of self, the skeletons we hide away in closets…I didn’t buy it…the scariest thing I had come to find, was simply being human… …

E. A. O'Connell

In the last year, I’ve learned a great deal about how to approach the topic of weekends and holidays; especially holidays that celebrate being with family, that are centered around food and festivities, giving and receiving. It’s a tight rope walk that requires sensitivity and careful wording, so as not to elicit hurt with the reminder of absence, loss, and having less. And with this in mind, I often found myself reflecting on the idea of thanksgiving this week. Not Thanksgiving as in parades, feasting, or gearing up for Black Friday and Cyber Monday deals, but the acknowledgement and celebration of gratitude. I’ve been making it a point this year to pay close attention to the small glimpses of humanity I see when out and about, at work, in my neighborhood, and at home…how strangers can share singular, fleeting moments of kindness with others and even with themselves…and it seems that we need these soul lightening moments more than ever in an age of civil and self hostility that weighs heavy on so many. I had this glimmering realization that we are all the living embodiment of thanksgiving, and that at the root of it is not what we have or can contribute in material things and financially, nor what we don’t have and can’t contribute by those means…it’s about what our presence and existence adds to the story we are writing each day; the interactions, conversations, and opportunities we have with others and with ourselves. The idea and act of thanksgiving isn’t just the gratitude we express to others, it’s also the gratitude we should have for our individual selves. It’s not an uplifting point to speak on, knowing that there are children and adults who will be alone or unable to be with their loved ones this holiday season, it’s in actuality a heartbreaking and sobering reality for far too many, but if I’ve come to understand anything in this last year, it’s that even if you only have your thoughts to keep you company this long weekend, I hope you know that to someone out there, possibly a complete stranger you shared a fleeting moment of kindness with, you are a spark fueling the flame of thanksgiving that spreads to and through the masses beyond the calendar borders of November.

E. A. O'Connell. November 2019

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Acceptance; my flesh in torn fashion, gaping wounds, blood coating my tongue…I’m aware of the intricacy of each of my heart beats, I feel the synapses forming the thought, the cold wash of anxiety that freezes at the realization. Regeneration; my body convenes with my soul, numb, a white noise of existing…I’d practiced at honing my will, calling upon it, the searing stretch and bruising ache, stitching my flesh quiet…Death, himself, kisses the truth of my strength well, proud and stricken, he keeps me around for the insanity, the habitual flirtation, to see how close he can bring me, and how capable I am of saving myself.

E. A. O'Connell