New Moon

I think I was in third grade the first time I heard the expression, "In like a lion, out like a lamb." Do you know it? It refers to the month of March, and it works both ways. In other words, if March begins with snowstorms and weather drama, then it will end with a soft and seamless entry into spring, and if it begins with mild, calm weather, winter will rage on into April.

I found myself thinking of this expression in another context today when I realized that yesterday I had written my 364th entry here, which means that I went over my initially daunting one year goal without even realizing it! I knew it was coming, sure. I've even written about it here. But when it actually happened, it was without commemoration on my part. 

And I have come to a decision, based only in part on that: on the fact that writing here has become, as hoped, a part of my routine as ingrained as my morning cup of coffee. It's just something that I do. Will keep doing. As I continue, however, I will be taking weekends off. Sevenhundredfiftywordsfivedaysaweek? No need to mess with the title. Just know, if you're reading, I'm skipping Saturdays and Sundays on purpose, not hiding from you in the shadows of cyberspace or in the bathtub with a magazine.

And I am going to devote less time to analyzing what I'm writing, and why, and to explaining either here. The original point of the blog, to make writing a part of my everyday life, is enough, I have decided, without apologies or backpedaling. 

Besides, more and more, I am seeing the beauty in the everyday, those entries I initially worry are so slight and trivial they will drift off the screen into the air of your offices and living rooms, into mine. The older I get, the less appeal I find in the big punch, the fireworks accompanied by the symphony capped off by the popping of the cork in the bottle of champagne. 

It may be, for now, that I am meant to be writing about the moon-shaped night-light Lily got for her birthday that is mounted on the wall and cycles through the phases of the real moon for thirty minutes after I put the girls to bed. Now, since I hung it across from their beds, Lily puts her hands behind her head on the pillow and gazes happily at it as it waxes and wanes, as though she were lying on a blanket in a field under an actual starry sky. And Annika, eyes shining, stands in her crib, leaning on the bar as far out as she can to get closer to it, saying, pointing, "Moon! Moon. Moon."

Thank you for listening, for helping me continue, for making it worth it, for reminding me why I write and who I am. Good-night. Another year begins.