There is not much effort in the passing of one year to the next. I go to bed in 2005 and wake in the natal year 2006. If it were not for the convenience of numbers, maybe we would reckon the sealing-off like a tree---go dormant, and when one quickens again to the good work of creating---well there's a ring formed from prior strife to stiffen the new to any adversity.
Believe me, if there is to be a riot of green, of shoot-worthy growth, of nest building & lustful song above; than below, in the fragrant shade, in the wit & potency of humus, in the incantations of life-endowed dirt---there must be death. Think of it as what we leave ungirded in the annuli of our lives---it becomes the annealing fuse for a new ring as winter gives way, as the Sun strengthens, the Earth warms, and the birds return.
But all the forces at work to bring about a year's end cease not.
Like a tree bend honestly against ocean wind; take a virtuous hold of firm earth & resist ruin of the north---but should the will for good work attenuate, the animation of beauty abrade & the desire for adventure drain from every cell, leave us the new year with this certainty: at the center of your death is a Love sealed-off from the destruction that has given birth to it. This Love is what trees dream of in their winter sleep. The sleep that completes the old ring, which begins the power invoked by a new, great awakening.
This Love is the force of the fruitful---& to be fruitful, is, after all, the Aim of every new year.
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