The Year of Alchemy

From there to here, from here to there. 

I rang in 2018 anticipating all good things.  I dubbed it the year of life. The number eighteen in Hebrew means life. Numerology becomes a little less mysterious when the letters are numbers and the numbers are words.  From that to this, from this to that.

It turns out 2018 was indeed a year of life, at least in the sense that I am still alive, which is far better than the alternative. From there to here. I'm trying to take stock today, to see what else I have to show for 2018, other than breathing. I need to figure out where I've been before I figure out where I'm going, no? 

No. The year was a blur, and 2019 started out not much better, after I rang in the New Year with a mind numbing combination of, well, lots of stuff. I wonder what to dub this new year, so I Google the meaning of 19, in Hebrew. Nineteen, the combining of ten and nine, "denotes God's perfect order in regard to his judgment in the Bible." I don't know what that means, so I read on. "The names Job and Eve, if we substitute letters for numbers, add up to 19." Two imperfect people adding up to perfect order? Shit, who knows? 

2019. The year of creating perfect order out of imperfection. It's a mouthful, but I've got plenty of imperfection to go around, so it's a start. 

From here to there. Somehow, I need to figure out what to do with all this before I get to the next "there," to 2020, which, according to my sources, might very well be dubbed the year of redemption.  From "palm" -- an open hand. Well that kinda makes sense. 

Alexa, how do I create perfect order out of imperfection? My "Echo" cheat sheet told me I could ask Alexa anything. Alexa, tell me what I want to hear. Oddly, Alexa took that to mean "play some seventies music." Freebird came up first. If I leave here tomorrow. . . I'm as free as a bird now. . . And this bird you cannot change. In other words, you can run away, but you have to take yourself with you. Shit. 

From here to there. If I have any chance of taking flight, I need to lighten my load. I will stop watching MSNBC. I will block the contacts who stoke my imperfectness. I will give away the clothes that I never wear. I will eat less gluten, drink more water. I will be a better friend, a better daughter, a better mother. 

Last year, breathing. This year, a bit of alchemy, tinged with unrealistic aspiration. Next year, no matter what happens, an open palm.