2012 was the best and the worst year of my life.

The year started with such promise.  In February I came across a site called One Little Word.  The concept was to think of one word that would define the New Year.  I chose “possible”.

And for several months everything seemed possible.  I embarked on a dream.  I took my love of photography and quotes, blended them together, and found a way to make them pay for themselves.  I had a wonderful summer at the Farmer’s Market basking in the praise of my work by total strangers; people whose words I could trust because they were not obligated to love my work because they loved me.  I was creative.  I was energized.  I was happy.

But there was a dark shadow lurking in the corners and I was too blinded by the light of happiness to notice.

You would think I’d have learned by now how to read the signs of impending doom.  As some say, this wasn’t my first rodeo with disaster riding on the back of happiness.  Twenty three years earlier I went from the joy of motherhood to widowhood in 22 short, long, months.  I went on to love again and lose and love again and lose. 

They say ‘you never know what you have until you lose it’.  In my case, at least, I beg to differ; I am always aware of what I have and always afraid of losing it.  That fear drove me to build walls between happiness and loss; with bricks of emotional and mental distancing that shield the heart and mind from potential pain.

I lost people I loved because of those walls.  Not through the final, never able to say I am sorry, route of death but by the impatience and impertinence of youth’s desire for life to be perfect, flawless, and, oh yes, painless.  I pushed people away because I was afraid to let them behind the barrier; to see my fear, my vulnerability, to see me.

So I learned the lesson: Walls shut out the light.  I told myself, never again.  I promised myself to live life full, to discover who I was and be that person.  I knew who I wanted to be; I wanted to be passionate even if that passion made me vulnerable.

When I first met Mitch it was at a time I had said “never” to getting involved again.  I was happy with my independence.  I was content with my solitude.  But I liked the way he made me laugh.  So I tentatively took that step into Neverland.

And it was good.  We complimented one another; his extroversion and my introversion never clashed.  We were on the same page, allowing one another to be what we each wanted to be and joining together to share our joys and sorrows.  We were good. 

We built dreams together.  We were possible.

Of course, we messed up.  We made mistakes.  We, I, put bricks in the wall;  but, always the but, just at the brink we would pull back to each other; find ourselves again and dream the possible once more.

2012 was no different than any other year.  After an exhausting summer we were talking about all the things we should do, not “must do” things but joyful activities; our trip to New Orleans, taking our 1960 Land Rover out for Sunday drives.  Start living more, stop working more.  We were going to chase the possible again.  Except this was the year there was to be no turning back, or, going forward.  This was the year the possible became impossible.

My possible world ended, not on December 21, 2012, but September 15.  There was no Mayan prophecy to prepare me.  There were no warning signs.  I went to work with Mitch saying as I left “I love you.  Have fun today”.

Those were his last words to me and I am grateful for them. I cling to them in those dark moments of doubt and darkness. They remind me that it is so important to always, every day, tell the people you love that you love them. 

Saying ‘I love you’ instead of ‘good bye’ does not leave those behind wondering whether the messed up days, those days when you added a brick into the wall instead of removing one, the days you pushed them away because deep down you were so terrified that you were going to lose them, were successful.  Those three little words remove all doubt; they hold the promise of the possible even, especially, during impossible times.

I would like to say this is my last rodeo ride with grief, loss and missed opportunities but I have learned one life lesson:  Never say never.  It will happen.  It will happen because I ride the horse of the possible; for that is the essence of life, of living.  To do anything else is to brick oneself up behind walls with only shadows and no chance for the light of happiness to shine.

2013 will not be the year of the possible for me.  My One Little Word for 2013 will be ‘Promise’.

Promise myself to remember all that is good.  Promise to love my family and friends with an unfettered heart.  Promise to see the beautiful in every sunrise and sunset.  Promise to continue the dream that Mitch made possible.  Promise to be me.