For someone with a blog title that alludes to the ancient art of being able to see into the future, I regret to inform you that I’m terribly deficient in that department. I can no more tell you what the weather predicted for tomorrow is than what my step-by-step plan for welcoming a third baby into this nest might be.
I’ve gathered over the past few months that for some readers this comes across as reckless, or at the very least naive. But whatever superpowers of fortune telling or planning that I lack, I’ve decided I make up for with the superpower of optimism.
I can’t say that I was always this way—or even that I am always this way. When I was in my early twenties and starting this blog, the title emerged from a low-level sense of urgency and wanting to know what lay ahead. I had applications sitting in the graduate admissions offices of five different universities. I had a job that barely paid my very modest rent, not to mention the mountain of student debt I left college with. I wasn’t married. I didn’t have children. The options of where to live and where to study and what to do with my life felt endless in ways that were both exhilarating and terrifying.
Since then, a muddy algorithm of decisions and circumstance and luck, of planning and failing entirely to plan, of very good fortune and some not so good fortune, have landed me where I am. I don’t know much about what this new year will hold, but I do believe that one way or another, I’ll make it through.
A new year, like a new life, can fill a person either with hope and optimism or angst and dread. But regardless of how I face the future, time will march forward. I’ll make my way, sometimes easily and sometimes ploddingly. I’ll stumble and fall and pick myself back up, and sometimes—maybe even most times—getting back to standing will take a whole lot longer than I anticipate. I might need to walk on my knees for a while. I might writhe in pain or melancholy or I might soar with confidence and good cheer. Almost certainly, I’ll do both.
Here’s to embracing a new year—and a new life—with hope, but mostly with understanding that I don’t know what precisely the future holds. I do not read tea leaves. No matter how many times I’m asked how long we’ll stay in this apartment, or how long the new baby will sleep in a mini crib, or how we’ll adjust to our new normal, I won’t have the answers. Until I do. I’m okay with that.