Scram.

Who is eating my cauliflower now?

They don’t even wash their hands first.

Is it a lost cause for the others? Should I pull them all now?

Sigh. At least tidy up after you go.

It turns 21.

My Happy Day. December 17th. Each year I mark the date today. A remembrance of a delineation. An occasion of conscious choice toward following my gut in the face of Them and Supposed To. A day when I decided to find my way through a prolonged storm on a path unmarked. A not-yet path.

It is forgotten, often, to look up. To breathe in the ways the clouds skirt across the sky and to release one’s full weight into the earth. Forgotten, too often, to reflect upon routines as repeated choices when a moment of consideration would result in a change.

It is easy, on the surface, to follow. To flit. To fill one’s life with busy and bustle and the exponentially spread need for “hustle.” I can hide the hard that way. I see you doing the same.

Today, I’ll raise a glass, and offer cheers to choice. Cheers to intention and cheers to deviation. Cheers to the future resting and ready, ensconced in unlikely casings, to be released.