For many years, one of my favorite quotes from Shakespeare has been, “And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.” Perhaps this fondness comes from the nature lover or the writer in me or a combination of the two. Some of my favorite authors speak of stopping by the woods on a snowy evening, daffodils dancing in the breeze, or a single God-created tree that eclipses in beauty the finest work a poet can write.
Perhaps this tendency made me see a metaphor in my pot of succulents as we ring out 2024 and enter 2025. A few cold nights created this mix of desiccated brown plants interspersed with some that are bravely hanging on and one that is still flourishing. As I look back, the combination seemed to paint a picture of 2024 with hard times, regular days, and great joy.
Hard times came early in the year as our oldest son Murray lost his valiant battle with cancer. Interspersed throughout the year has been Al’s confrontation with the onset of dementia.
Regular days have included many more good days than bad ones. Allen seems to be following the doctor’s prediction that about the only thing that is consistent with dementia is that if it starts slowly like his has, that pace will continue. His sense of humor remains intact with an ability to laugh even at the dementia mistakes, and he remains the first reader of all my writing.
Great joy comes often with quality time with two lively grandsons next door and digital communication popping up from time to time with the eight grandchildren who are grown and adulting. Thanksgiving’s joy that included us, four grandchildren, and a couple of significant others was planned and set up by a daughter-in-law. Christmas brought fun Facetime with Murray’s family with great-grandson Myles as the cherry on the top. Our daughter and son-in-law have interspersed the year with visits that bring on jigsaw puzzles and shared books. And on any given day, as we look out our west facing windows, we may see a view like this.
As I think of ringing in the new year, I have to move only a few steps over to my beautyberry bush, bare for the winter, awaiting spring. There is promise that it will have green leaves, followed by delicate white flowers, and then green berries that turn an awesome magenta. Yet, I know from the past that some of those will be stolen by birds, some will shrivel and die. Past experience tells me a new year is much like that beautyberry as it starts with promise but will most likely have many regular days, some hardship, and a lot of joy.
Reverting to a bit of Shakespearean vocabulary - Begone 2024! Hark 2025!