Every year is something for me. I’ve had years of books. Years of travel. Years of learning. Years of losing. Years of failure and pain and the kind of falling down that bruises to the bone so deep you don’t notice until years later. Years where I sleepwalked through the process of life, where I only came awake when my body fell apart, when my heart plopped to the floor, when even brains did not sustain me.
Some years I soared: Wanderlust. Learning. Love. Joy. Books. Beautiful books. Stories. Friends. Family. Wit. Laughter. My heartmy heartmy heart.
Some years I fell: Divorce. Heartbreak. Bonebreak. Brainbreak. The words unwritten. The stories untold. The work undone, unraveled, waiting for my hands that never came. Heart myheart myheart my.
I’ve decreed 40 (and thus, in some ways, 2012) to be my year of yes. No, not like that. Not that tiny yes with its uncertainty. But not YES either, with its bold desire to run over everything, so convinced of its own importance. Not the typewriter style yes with its vintage ideals and sweet smudges. Not the printer, not the carved rock, not the word already printed in a book and read by one, by three, by a hundred.
This is a whole new yes. This is a yes that is not even sure it’s a yes. Yet. The yes that everyone else can see waiting to happen, waiting to be born, waiting to crack open shell and seam and world and woman.
This is the Circle y/n kind of yes. The hopeful kind of yes. The I’m going to take a risk and please may it work out yes. The yes that is written on my body by a beautiful man’s hand. By a woman’s brush. Or tongue. Or nail.
It is the yes that is the body that is the monologue of a woman who never lived written by a man who never died scripted by a tattoo artist with green eyes and a titmouse on her shoulder. It is yes I said yes I will yes.
It is yes like that. And yes like that not at all.
This is the yes that is tucked into that perfect moment. After the question mark. Before the Y.
It could be your yes.
Curl your tongue. Close your eyes. Take my hand. Put your lips to mine. Breathe it with me. Such a tiny word. Such a word.
Kiss kiss bang bang, s.