I hesitate to say Happy New Year.  I know it is “what is done.” We end a year with great expectation for all that lies ahead. Our hopes and dreams unrealized in the past will now finally have the chance to breath and find a way to light the future of our existence. Bullshit.  Sorry, did I say that out loud? I did… bullshit. I call bullshit on New Year’s optimism.  What is the point of looking into the future to find a better reality when all that matters is today. Every single today. “Later” will never, ever come.

Last week I saw Interstellar. I’ll spare you the critique.  Suffice to say that what stuck with me most was the reminder of Dylan Thomas’ haunting poem…

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I am not a poetry person at all, yet these words have been haunting me. I’ve read the poem over and over. I’ve read about what was happening in the poet’s life, and his father’s, when he wrote it. Holidays and new years can cause sometimes unwelcome self reflection. [Yes, of course gratitude, too… I can’t fucking blog about gratitude though.]

It’s the damn aging.  I seem to be both Aging and Raging. My nightmare is to actually go gently into that good night… and to stop raging against the dying of the light. It happens too often.  Raging is hard. Raging is exhausting. To me, raging means risk, adventure, questioning, learning, growing, Raging means continuing. Raging does not mean rocking chairs on a porch.

I raged a bit yesterday. I hiked a little mountain we have here, called Sugarloaf, by myself. Getting up is hard for me. It is a trail that is a tougher than I like, but it is do-able and it makes me feel like I am raging a bit. Of course it was on the easier trail heading down the mountain, where I fell and I fell hard.  A darling group of 20 yr. olds scraped me up. They weren’t able to scrape up my pride though. They were brushing me off and cleaning my earbuds and I was duly horrified. I had another two miles to walk to get out of there.  I moved quickly. I knew I’d be okay until I got cold.  Then everything would lock up and I’d be screwed.  I was okay until I missed my turn. Damn those little painted squares on the trees are hard to follow when I am tweeting.  Anyway, I did finally get out… muddy, limping, panting, a just little bit freaked out. I got to the car and I nearly got hit by an 18 wheeler on my way home and not 30 seconds later, somehow avoided two bucks running shoulder to shoulder at my brand new car. I pulled over, hyperventilated a bit and drove home.  When I got there, I buried my sorrows in a pile of guacamole, Ghiradeli chocolate and washed it all down with a xanax.

Raging is hard my friends. And still I will rage on.

(P.S. – I just realized this is the second post I’ve written about a face plant. If you are interested in reading about my work event faceplant, link For Worse or for Better.)

I’ll finish with a song…. Enjoy and Happy New Year to you all!  XO 🙂