Author’s Note: I wasn’t going to share this one originally but…Well, I’m sure you can figure out why I think it’s relevant to post now.
Only eight months left in the new year.
If I told any of our guests that, they would be confused. How could there be eight months left when the new year was just about to start in a few hours? Twelve are ahead of us – an entire brand-new year. One that, with much hope, would be better than the last. It had to be.
And they’re right, it is a new year according to our calendars. Yet another solar cycle completed. Other calendars would disagree. None more so than government budgets and financial calendars. As far as they’re concerned, it started months ago. But for me, that is never when a new year begins. A new year starts whenever I’m on that boat heading back home from the Island.
There’s a tradition in my family where every calendar year able, we would head to the Island for summer vacation. Only a week’s stay, maybe two if we could go up early with our grandparents. Usually in August during summer break’s final stretches, that final hurrah of freedom. And though for many years we owned nothing on the Island, Grandpa always told us the entire island was ours. He was the king. This was his island. As royal heirs, we could do anything unless it went against his word or our parents. Aside from this, there was no other law than our own.
Though it always heralded a coming end, we looked forward to the Island. The storms and rough waters on the ferry ride over were never a deterrent, only an enhancer for the excitement. Yet on that same ferry ride back, I rarely remember it ever being stormy. The waters were always calm. My mind was not.
The moment we stepped off that boat and back on the mainland, the break would be over. School would begin again. And dread overcame, threatening to take me overboard every time. A crisis only known to me. All the things I failed to accomplish the year before. All the things and changes coming very soon. Time refused to negotiate with me to slow down or stop. Every boat ride back home, I had to decide if I would allow myself to drown this time or tread water.
. . .
According to the calendar, it has been many years since I’ve last been to the Island. I’ve been to it twice now. First to let the king live forever and then again to do the same for the queen.
The waters stared back at me, not believing I would breach the surface this time with the millstone of stolen years and lives. They could see that I’ve grown tired.
Only eight months left. It will hurt, but a new year won’t be better by itself. As the ball dropped, now was not the time to drown or just tread water to survive. It was time to swim. Race that boat to shore. And next time, run on the water back to my Island.