S, who was set on fire in Lashkar Gah: I remember you.

J, who was executed by Talibs in Kandahar: I remember you.

R, who was shot through the head on his knees in the Iraqi desert: I remember you.

J.B., who died of cancer after years of service near radioactive equipment: I remember you.

T, who was captured, and came home: I remember you. I am so glad you are safe.

C, who was killed by an Iraqi IED, who was pieced back together by her boyfriend in order to be buried with full military honors: I remember you.

My grandfather Paul and my grandmother Bess: I remember you both.

B, J, and myself, even us, yes- with our jaws set tight and our nightmares hidden, our secret tears: I remember us, too.

That nameless soldier, you know who you are. I remember you. And your friend, too. I remember you both every day, with every breath I take.

I remember. I remember. I fucking remember you all.

tosspot
vex
pithy
doxy
whoreson
lobbygow
bawd
troglodyte
hirsute
gumption
speakeasy
moxie
cull
curmudgeon
meander
lech
dawdle
bugaboo
cur

Things that are better than my bed:

sex
Dipasquale’s sandwiches
chocolate tea
massages
the internet

Things I’m grateful for at this exact moment:

black IPA beer
pumpkin seeds
thunderstorms
men’s sweatpants
cats
stomping boots
books
clove- scented candles
my bed

Things I could do without at this exact moment:

cold feet (literally)
an oddly itchy bicep
that stupid “I Hate You So Much Right Now” song cycling in my head
S shouting at his video game (they can’t hear you!!!)
boxes that still need unpacking
clutter

Congratulations to the lovely Sarah Tuttle, who was the lucky winner of a free digital copy of California Revival Knits, by Stephannie Tallent, from Cooperative Press!

To everyone else- thanks so much for being a part of the give- away! I wish you all could have won.

Stephannie Tallent‘s new book, California Revival Knits, was released by Cooperative Press last week. Hooray!  It features fourteen different patterns. Each item is based on the architecture and design of the California Revival period in the 1920s.

Handmade mosaic tiles

The book itself is just gorgeous. It begins with a wonderful walk-through of Stephannie’s obsession with the period and the craftsmanship of the California Revival period, with beautiful photography detailing the mosaics still being made by hand in south central Los Angeles.

Mosaic tiles, being made by hand in south central LA

From there, the books moves into Stephannie’s design process. I love when a designer takes the time to talk about their process; learning how an artist works is always fascinating, and I’ve been a huge fan of Stephannie’s work ever since I first saw her designs. When I first met Stephannie in real life, I completely embarrassed myself by having a total fangirl moment. I think there was even some jumping up and down involved, and I’m pretty sure I just kept saying, “I am such a fan of your work,” over and over again, but honestly, it’s sort of a shameful blur for me. Ever since I saw Zylphia, I’ve been a lost cause.

Stephannie writes wonderfully about her process here- it’s engaging and down- to- earth. It’s a great essay on how she came to select her colors, patterns and materials in order to reflect her passion for the California Revival style.

After this, we come to the patterns. And oh, the patterns! They’re fantastic. I was lucky enough to see some of them in the flesh (or should that be, “in the wool”?) at Rhinebeck last year, and they are just amazing.

Tiles Sweater

Stephannie’s patterns have always excelled in the fine details. There is lavish beading in the Tiles sweater, the Peacock Cowl, and the Peacock Mitts. There’s architectural lace work in the Peacock Shawl (which is going on my needles next week!) and the UnderSea Garden Cowl. Of course, there is intriguing color work in the Stair Steps Tam and the Stairsteps Mitts set, as well as the ridiculously clever Fringe Socks (which come in three sizes, hooray!). The Peacock Mitts and the Peacock Cowl also incorporate color via intarsia and duplicate stitch! There is a quick home project in the Catalina Star Pillow, worked in worsted weight yarn, but my favorite pattern must be the Wrought Iron Cardi.

Wrought Iron Cardi

I’ve always been a sucker for a cardigan, but this one has it all: twisted stitches add depth and dimension, a shawl collar to snuggle down into on chilly evenings, and a pattern with seven different sizes and a full schematic. Absolutely perfect!

The entire Wrought Iron collection grabs my heart, though. The Wrought Mitts are more of the same in the best way- twisted, traveling stitches on the small scale, perfect for last- minute gifts, if I can stand to part with them. The Wrought Iron Beret is stunning, and then there is also a pair of Wrought Socks, too- perfect in their simplicity.

Wrought Iron Socks

The Quatrefoil Mitts (which are followed by a full mitten version, for those of you in colder climates) are another of my favorites from this book. I love a good, simple colorwork project, and the picot hem sold me on this pattern; again, here is one of those perfect little details that Stephannie does so well.

Daaaaaaw! Bonus kitty! Also, the Quatrefoil Mitts.

I’m thrilled to see this book come out; I’ve been waiting for it with baited breath ever since Stephannie told me it was coming.

To celebrate the arrival of this awesome book, I’d like to give away one free digital copy! Just leave me a comment below, telling me which pattern you’d knit first if you won this book- and why- to be entered to win a digital copy of the book! I’ll pick a winner using the Random Number Generator at 12 pm Eastern,  on Wednesday, the 2nd of May.

Good luck, everyone!

This is a scary post for me to write.

I am a medical marijuana activist.

I haven’t been doing this in the dark, but this year I’m so much more public about my involvement in medical marijuana legislation in my state. I haven’t written about it yet in this blog, for example, but I’ve talked about it on my (very locked down) Facebook.

Last year, I became involved so very suddenly, and it was all very new: I was just learning, and I was so very unsure. This year, I’m more educated, more certain, more steady, more seated in myself as an activist and in the cause. This year I am more versed in the dialect of disability awareness, more clear on the issue of medical marijuana laws throughout the nation. This year I’m becoming much more open about what I do every spring.

This year I am also more vulnerable, with a new business, with my disability itself having so recently and nastily reared its head this past month.

The risks I take are worth it. The risk of arrest, the risk of the financial strain of setting up a legal defense, the risk of stigmatization, all worth it.

I go to the hearings to testify, I go to the press conferences to speak, and I meet with advocates, state senators and delegates, and most of all, other patients: my community. There are these pockets of time in which I am surrounded by people who truly speak my language in a way that the other people in my life can’t- the language of pain and waiting, the language of living in a body that is full of mystery and strangeness, the language of patience and frustration, the language of sitting with our disability and living in a world that doesn’t understand our bodies, a world that wants to pretend our bodies don’t exist.

I fight for this for them, for us. I fight for this because we deserve to be pain free, because there are so few advocates for us, so few voices, and if I have anything, I do have a great big mouth.

Help us, if you can. If you’re in Maryland, please, call or write Governor O’Malley and ask him to reconsider his stance on the medical marijuana bills currently under consideration in the House and the Senate: SB 995, HB 15, HB 1024, and HB 1158. If you’re outside of Maryland, look into your local legislation. There are people in chronic pain who need your support.

You can find form letters and contact information for your local legislators at MPP or NORML. Please, get involved. We need every bit of help we can get. We are not criminals: we are patients, and friends, and members of your community.

With all of the bedrest I have had lately, I’ve spent a lot of time sitting and thinking. A few of the things I have realized:

1.   I am not good at accepting my limitations. This relapse was almost guaranteed, I think. I could see its beginnings right after the fire: the stress of the fire and the dissolution of SG kicked up symptoms that I should have immediately addressed, but I dismissed them because I was too busy. I should never be too busy, but I forget that this body is breakable, is vulnerable, is stronger than my willpower: I forget that my disease will conquer me and my plans. I forget this because I don’t want to remember it.

2.   I have no real idea what my limitations are. It doesn’t help that in this disease the goalposts are constantly shifting: what was perfectly fine to do yesterday may not be okay to do today. Parts of my body that functioned last month may not function next week. I say that I’m new at this, but in talking to other people with MS I learn that while we get better at learning our subtle body cues the mutability of our illness keeps us all permanent beginners: there is no real graduation to Expert Level in MS.

3.   I don’t have a choice when it comes to self- care. Self- care is not the same as self- indulgence. It’s funny: I have been thinking that for the longest time and I’ve never realized it. Self- care is not being lazy, or being self- indulgent: it’s healthy. Ridiculous. I’ve been driving myself into walls- through walls- for far too long.  Self- care will also not make me too weak to fight my MS, something I’ve been concerned about since my diagnosis: I’ve been so afraid that if I took a moment to stop, my disease would begin to chip away at my body, and that I wouldn’t be able to re- coup my strength. There can be a balance; I just need to find it.

I purchased a wheelchair in the interest of self- care. I’m not happy about it, but some days it does come down to saving the energy I have: do I want to be walking around and only have 2 hours worth of energy, or do I want to be in a wheelchair and have 6 hours worth of energy? This is probably one of the healthiest decisions I have made in a long, long time. It doesn’t sit easy, and I still haven’t used it, but I have the chair, and that’s a start.

4.   I don’t need to do everything all at once. I have a million things going right now, and I love them all, but I need to pace them; this is part of self- care. I have been living each day as though I might not get another- eating life by the fistful. There’s a beauty to that, but it burns me up, and threatens to burn me out too fast. I can’t sustain that with this body, which breaks my heart, but is the truth. I can’t sustain that. I need pacing, and grace.

5.   Help is possible. I’m learning this one, which is so hard, and insanely painful. “Just ask for help,” is something I hear more and more these days, and I’ve been fighting for the words to describe how privileged this phrase sounds to me. I know it comes from a good place, a loving place, a helpful place, which makes it even harder, but “just ask for help” is frequently said by kind and gentle people who had parents who helped with their homework. I had a friend recently tell me they’d only seen me sick a few times, that they’d only seen me use my cane several times out of pride. This struck me as an example of my lack of vocabulary for illness, need, and vulnerability. I have no way of asking for help. I don’t know how that is done, how that is negotiated between people. I have done this thing, as I have done most everything since I was sixteen, alone: I don’t know how to ask for assistance. How do you tell someone you need something? How do you ask, and not fall completely apart?

I am surrounded by the well- intentioned and the loving who tell me to “just ask” for help if I need it, but it is the asking part that is still so foreign to me. I frequently don’t even know how to identify when I need help, because the idea of asking for help isn’t something I understand. I don’t ask my husband for help.

I’m learning to accept help. I am even learning to ask for it, although I’m awful at it, and I’ll frequently struggle with a task for far longer than I need to, expending loads of energy on something stupid, like opening a jar, when there really is no way my hands are strong enough right now to perform that task. I recently had my friend Auggie over for beers and had a quiet moment of personal triumph because I asked him to open the bottles: I am that bad, people, but I am getting better.

One of the best things about the Solumedrol experience was that it took me completely out of my work. I needed to relinquish all of my tasks- absolutely everything- and I became completely useless for weeks. I needed to rely on my family and friends: I needed to ask for help. I surrendered, and it wasn’t the end of the world. Everything worked. There were problems, and they were fixed. There were squabbles, and people made up. The world went on turning, and I was okay. People came out of the woodwork to help me, and while outside of work I wasn’t able to say what I needed, I was able to take what they offered, and that was good.

Having Sam administer my infusions was like that- like asking for help, being vulnerable in a new and terrifying way. In case you haven’t noticed yet, vulnerability isn’t my strong suit, but I’m not alone in that one- most of us like to feel strong, especially when we aren’t. There was this beauty is what we did, in my sitting down with my arm extended, in his calmly, competently setting up my line each morning, in setting up the infusion, in him flushing my port post- infusion. This is what love looks like, I’d think, dizzy, covered in blankets, grateful, holding his hand. Being that scared, and feeling that exposed, and doing it anyway: we didn’t have a choice, but it brought me to a new place- one in which I hope I’m better at asking for and accepting help.

6.   I really, actually, truly have MS. I know I’ve talked about it, and written about it, and I even have all the MRIs to prove it, but it is easy to forget this. Part of the forgetting is because I don’t want to remember it: it’s not the worst disease in the world, but it’s still a pretty crappy hand to be dealt, and not something you want to dwell on. Unfortunately, in order to be healthy, I do need to keep it in mind. The other part of the forgetting happens because when my medication and self- care is working, I feel relatively normal, and I begin to think, “Well, maybe it wasn’t as bad as I remember. Maybe I am really okay. Do I actually need all this stuff, all these accommodations?” WRONG. WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG, Sarah.

I have multiple sclerosis. That isn’t going to change, and it isn’t going to go away. There is no cure, and I will have this until I die. This is my reality, and it is something I can’t forget; I will have to remember this and manage it for the rest of my life. It is okay. It is okay. Nothing will change this, and it isn’t okay because I can make my life into something that looks like a non- disabled life; it’s okay because a disabled life is perfectly fine. It doesn’t look like a lot of other lives, but I like my life, and I’m tired of fighting for something that is silly, because isn’t the reality in which I live. My reality is good. Better than good, my reality can be honest and raw and true if I stop trying so damned hard to push myself past my own limits.

I still have no idea where those limits are, but I have a wheelchair now, and I am beginning to learn how to ask my husband to help push me through rummage shops to find a pair of antique binoculars, so at least I can start looking for them now. It isn’t much, but it’s a start, and I can even start with a little bit of style.

This is not an easy entry for me to write.

On the 27^th of January I called my neurologist. I’d been sick, secretly sick, sneakily sick, doing That Thing I Do, where I hide all of my symptoms as though they are some Top Secret government project. I am good at secrets.

I’d been losing the strength in the left side of my body, experiencing tingling and numbness through that entire side, unable to feel that side of my face. I went through periods where I couldn’t stand to have anything touch me, because everything hurt, but I kept moving, because I was busy: there was just too much happening to take time.

When I first realized I couldn’t feel the left side of my face, I was paused in traffic, listening to NPR at the red light on the corner of Charles and Baltimore St. Touching my face, I thought, This can’t be happening, then checked in the mirror, to see if everything still moved. When it did, I thought, I still have time, and let it go.

I called my neurologist. I thought he got dramatic about things. (I can’t even get into what an asshole I am.) He recommended I go on infusion therapy immediately. I don’t have time for that right now, I told him. I’m really busy. We just re- opened the shop. We’re still dealing with the repairs from the fire. I can’t take a month off. I’ll work through this. There isn’t time.

You may not have noticed this yet, but I’m a real idiot.

I didn’t have time.

I bought myself a few weeks, but that was it. By the time I went in to my neurologist’s office, it was inevitable, but he was nice enough not to give me an I- told- you- so. I would have more than deserved it. My left hand, my smart hand, was useless. My reflex tests were a joke. My balance was negligible. He started me on a five- day Solumedrol infusion series that weekend, and handed me a prescription for opioids. It was the first time I’d ever accepted one.

Infusion therapy is something I’ve been dreading since my diagnosis. I give myself a subcutaneous shot every night- something I’d once thought I’d never be able to do. This makes the people around me think I’m somehow completely calm about all needles. I’m not, though. I had an encounter with an under-experienced, overconfident nurse- in- training and ever since, I get queasy about IVs, every time. Infusion therapy required installing an IV port in my arm for the five- day period, which was a blessing of sorts; at least I wouldn’t need to have five different IV lines.

I tried to read about what it would be like online, but most of what I found was lists of potential side effects, or forums of people like me, asking questions and getting few answers. I took notes on what it was like for me each day, to try and record the experience for others, but of course it’s different for everyone.

Getting set up was strange and surreal: the home nursing center called and confirmed our details, then set up a time to first deliver all of the supplies, then to have the nurse come over. His name was Warren, and he would be training us on how to perform the infusion. That was a surprise: I had expected the nurse to come over daily to perform the infusion. The idea of doing it ourselves was both scary (what if we did it wrong!?) and calming (oh thank Bob, I don’t have to think up polite small talk to a stranger every morning, I can just relax and be sick).

Day one was simple: Warren came out to the house in the early afternoon. He was so awkward on the telephone; not rude, but abrupt and odd. I was already so nervous and frightened about beginning infusions that I began to make up stories about him in order to make myself feel better: Warren was probably a tea- drinker, a man who liked cats and hated the telephone, and was a little socially awkward, just like me. By the time Warren The Reality got to my door, he was also a Dr Who fan who enjoyed banjo music, ate coffee ice cream, and owned a shawl collared tweed sweater with leather elbow patches that he wore when he felt sniffly. None of these things may have been true of Warren The Reality, but it sure made it a lot easier for me to let him give me an IV.

It took four tries, because I have tiny, fussy veins. We ended up going in the crook of my right arm, which was unfortunate, but at least it wasn’t my hand. The failed IV attempts hurt worse than the actual IV line itself. The first infusion felt like nothing, really- just a cold sensation. It took about ninety minutes. After, I was cold- chilled from the inside, shivering, and dazed. I bundled up and once I stopped shivering, I seemed to be all right- just goofy and a little tired. Hungry, too. This isn’t so bad, I thought.

Once I seemed to settle, we went to Lowe’s to get appliances for the kitchen. It was terrible timing, but it needed to be done; the contractors needed them to finish the kitchen and we had been putting it off. I dopily, ditzily followed Sam through the aisles, wielding a broom he’d handed me for my balance.

“I feel like a WIZARD,” I told him with pride, waving my broom about like a staff. (Later, he told me this didn’t seem too out of the norm, and I wondered about myself.)

I felt sleepy, happy, expansive: none of the manic energy I’d been told to expect, and definitely none of the irritability. I wasn’t the angry monster the internet told me I’d turn into: I loved everyone I saw. I was incredibly forgetful, though: I began to whisper, “Why are we doing this?” to Sam almost as soon as we begin to do anything. I wasn’t frightened, just calmly befuddled by our presence any time we entered a new location. We went home, and I curled up in my chair while we watched a movie. This isn’t too bad, I thought.

By day two, I was strangely sad, and wanted comfort without knowing why. I didn’t feel helpless, or hopeless, or depressed- I just wanted blankets, and cats, and hugs, and hot cocoa. I felt beaten down physically, and I took a long nap after my morning infusion. My skin began to take on that creepy, crêpe-y doll- like perfection that it has had before when I’d been on oral prednisone, and it disturbed me beyond measure. I tried to avoid mirrors.

By day three, I was exhausted. I slept almost constantly, and couldn’t imagine eating- all food was completely disgusting to me. I was shocked that I still didn’t experience the jolt of energy everyone writes about with Solumedrol, until my reading lead me to learn that if you let yourself go long enough, if you let yourself get sick enough, that it wouldn’t happen. Oh.

I was grateful that I missed out on the steroid rages- I’d been so afraid of that part. Solumedrol has a reputation for making people behave that way, and I’d been really worried. I didn’t want to be mean and horrible to the people I love. The idea of losing control is scary to me in the first place, but losing control and alienating my family and friends? I WILL PASS ON THAT, PLEASE. Luckily, strangely, the drug has had the opposite affect: I was warm and sleepy and I wanted to hug the entire world.

I do wish I had any of the energy at all, though. So many things I could have done with all that time at home: so many things I’d wanted to knit.

Days four and five were much more of the same: I just became more and more tired. As I got worse, though, things started to happen: I began to notice the strength in my left hand coming back, which was amazing and wonderful, and the burning flashes of pain on my left side decreased, too.

It’s a trade- off: I’m exhausted, dizzy, and immuno- suppressed, but my neurologic symptoms are hugely improved as the swelling in my brain is decreased. Now I wait for the side effects of the Solumedrol to wear off.

Since the infusions stopped, I’ve come into what my doctor calls The Crash: the post- steroid infusion period where my body re- adjusts. It’s all just waiting from here, and that’s the part I’m the worst at: patience. Part of it is waiting to see the results, which is like the worst Christmas anticipation ever: it’s a giant gift, sitting wrapped and beautiful under the tree, right in the middle of the sitting room, but I can’t open it yet, and it could be something amazing in that box, something wonderful like a fully functional me. It could be something crap, too: it could be a return to where we started, a complete failure, a meds change, moving to regular opioids, never fully regaining the strength in my good hand, using a wheelchair occasionally for fatigue. It could be that, too.

And so I am learning patience. I am learning to wait. I am learning to take it easy, because doing anything- pushing it at all- threatens this recovery. I am not good at this. I peek at work. I bother my husband a lot. He’s so good about it, but I’m a horrible bother-er: What’s happening? What’s going on? How’s this going? How’s that? Despite strict orders not to work, once I was awake through the day, I began to stalk our own updates and to read our forums on Ravelry. “You’re not supposed to be doing that,” Sam tells me. He makes his I am very disappointed face, the one he used to make at our daughter when she was very small and did something naughty. I feel abashed, but it is only a mild deterrent. I am meant to be avoiding stress, but I find the stress- free life to be stressful. Sam does not find this statement ironic or amusing. Sam is very serious about my recovery.

I am very serious about my recovery too, I suppose. It’s harder, being on the inside. More annoying. More frustrating. I am not built for waiting, for sitting, for rest. I assign myself tasks: meditation now, then sketching, then writing, then reading (first fiction, then non- fiction, then work- related blogs, etc).

I am working on getting better at recovery, but it’s a slow slog. I don’t know how to do this yet: I am still a beginner.

a very friendly kraken

That’s all.

Resolutions are bullshit.

Okay, maybe they work for you, but they only half- work for me. Every year, my Resolution Number One is “Don’t Die” and so far I am acing that. But when it comes to going to the gym four times a week, swearing less, taking underwater ballistic ballroom basket- weaving lessons at the local community center, etc, I have always started out with the best of intentions and have forgotten I’d even started by mid- March.

I don’t need to start any new year feeling like I’ve already failed: I’m neurotic enough by nature. I’ve given up resolutions. At the beginning of each year I set very specific goals for myself, and I give myself one Word Of The Year. I’ll get to the Word Of The Year in a minute. Let’s talk about resolutions first.

Goals of any kind work when they’re clearly worded and achievable. “Resolving” to do anything is about what we “should” do- all the awful, guilt- laden “ought-to” actions that bring us no joy. It’s vague and wishy- washy; resolutions are the things folks don’t even really want to do in the first place. They’re obligations that we secretly, resentfully don’t even feel fully obliged to do. We like drinking whiskey and watching Breaking Bad until 3 am on Wednesday nights. We like smoking Black & Milds when we play poker. We don’t want to give that up. Or at least, I don’t want to give those things up yet.

If each new year is a symbolic moment- this fresh shining moment in which we can turn over a new leaf, in which we can improve our lot and ourselves, why are focusing on taking things away? I don’t want to give things up.

But there are things I want. 

Think it over, seriously. Don’t waste your time or energy on something you think you kinda- of, sort- of, really- should- be spending your time on, like losing 10 silly pounds or watching how many times you say a bad word. You only get so many days; what do you want?

For the sake of an example: I couldn’t care less about losing any weight or eating less carbs, but I have my heart set on running a half- marathon this year.

When I was living in England, I worked with this man, Jamie, who ran marathons. He didn’t run them in that showy, asshole way: “LOOK AT ME, I AM TRES SPORTIF!” No, Jamie just quietly ran marathons. That’s it. It was something he did, on the occasional weekend.

He knocked me out, Jamie did. 26.2 miles, man. 26.2 miles, all casual- like. If you asked him about it, he’d talk about it, and even then, he was so quiet about the thing. He did it because he liked to. It made him feel calm, quiet, happy, strong.

I’d like some of that, please.

Rather than set a resolution (“I will run a half- marathon in 2012! Hooray! Sometime in 2012!!”) I will make a very specific commitment: “I will run a 10k in July,” as a step to that goal, then I find a 10k in July, because otherwise, I’ll forget, fail to train, throw myself into a 10k at the last minute, and find myself puking on the side of a trail in the Maryland summer. Then, I say, “I will run half- marathon in late 2012,” and I pick out the half- marathon, too. 

So now I have a set goal with clear- cut dates and expectations- I can do that! There are steps and a deadline. I’ve decided I will do this thing and I know exactly how I’ll get there. Hooray for a plan! I’ve gone from this strange, amorphous, and awfully vague thing hanging over my head to something I can easily accomplish. This pre- emptively destroys my Procrastination Monster. (Remind me some time to draw the Procrastination Monster for you. It is awful.)

More important to me than my Commitments, though is my Word Of The Year.

Despite being a yoga and meditation teacher, I’m not a very New Age-y “woo” person. I can’t even say the word “woo” without doing this terribly dismissive hand gesture: half jazz- hands, but up next to the temples, plus eye- rolling. I’m generally uncomfortable talking about this sort of thing, but having a central point of intention for your year changes everything for me.

Last year, I sat down with myself and thought about what I wanted my next twelve months to look like: what did I want? Did I want quiet, or was I looking for new things? Did I want to study, or did I want to explore? The idea of planning an overall theme for twelve months was intimidating as hell, but by looking at what had been good and what had been missing from the year before I was able to pick out the pieces I wanted most.  After a day or two of thinking, I realized what I was looking for at that point in my life was growth & adventure- new experiences, new friends, knowledge. I decided that the Word Of The Year for 2011 would be “expand”.

I applied that word any time I had a decision to make. I didn’t get crazy, but I let “expand” be the theme of how I lived in 2011. I leased a studio for my business, moving it out of my home. I became a yoga instructor and started teaching yoga and meditation part- time. My business partner and I made the painful decision to break an alignment that was riddled with logistical problems that were sucking the joy out of our work; hard, but the healthiest decision I’ve made in a long time, and it resulted in a business that is mine, free and clear. I’ve begun writing again, for myself and for publication, and I have a book contract. Okay, I sort of let it get crazy. It didn’t matter. It was the right decision.

My Word Of The Year for 2012 will be “focus”. After a year of expansion, I have all these things happening now and I need to pay attention to them, cultivate them, try not to drop any of them. This is the vague part, the part where I’m allowed to have some flexibility: my Word becomes the theme by which I’ll live 2012. If that doesn’t sound very New- Age “woo”, I don’t know what does, but you know, it works for me.

What works for me doesn’t have to work for you. What are your resolutions, your commitments, your Words Of The Year?

merry christmas, all.