Since Friday night snow covers the ground around my home.
The shimmering whiteness over the golden Sierra grass has a soothing effect that triggers reflection.
Down in the valley I suspect that holiday shoppers must converge toward the malls and shopping plazas. Christmas trees, parades, music and plump Santa Clauses will transform the city and excitement will float in the air.
Although I want share the spirit of the season, I pause.
The end of the year is approaching and with it comes a closure.
Three hundred and sixty five days have come and gone.
I can’t help but wonder where they went and what happened while I was living them.
I think that it is impossible to live every day with the awareness of living twenty-four hours that will never come back. Although Steve Jobs said that as soon as he knew he was seriously ill he decided that he would make sure to live each day as his last, I feel like I would be observing myself twenty-four seven and possibly missing on the unexpected if I focused so much on making each day count.
Yet as the fresh blanket of snow covers imperfections all around me, I’m trying to capture the essence of my 2013.
It would be too extensive and boring, too, to cover all aspects of my life, so I will only focus on the craft of writing and the life of people who choose to write over other form of art to express their humanity.
In an interesting and not surprising way, over the last days a few bloggers have written posts, which echo my thoughts at different moments through 2013.
Anthony reflects on the one-year anniversary of his book.
Cristian questions writing versus living.
Lisa explores the reasons why she loves to write.
Stella wonders about being a writer versus an author.
The whiteness over the golden Sierra grass has a galvanizing effect that triggers desire.
A year is almost gone and there is nothing I can do to stop the time.
But three hundred and sixty five new days have not yet unfolded.
Each of them holds possibility.
I’m a little frightened to think of inexistent days.
I feel like standing at the edge of a cliff, facing the openness of the ocean or a New Blank Document.
Yet promise stirs inside me.
Each day can count and yet remain mysterious before it has started.
So I quit Word and drive down to the valley.
To see what’s going on there.