Having just finished reading (on Christmas Day) the astounding new novel, Lost Children Archive, by Valeria Luiselli, which is the Big Read choice here in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, this year, and which has, close to the end, a whole chapter, titled “Echo Canyon,” written in one, long – 19 pages’ worth! – run-on, stream-of-consciousness sentence, I feel inspired to try my hand at something similar – not 19 pages’ worth, of course (I’ll spare you) – but the same idea: allowing thoughts to flow seemingly effortlessly onto the page, some of the thoughts that for the past few days have been swirling around in my mind like the monarch butterflies that flit from milkweed to milkweed in the pollinator garden here in Parque Juarez, where I walk nearly every day; because it’s post-Solstice now and the light (and with it, hope) is growing longer by the day, and it’s post-Christmas with all its unbearable, to me, hoopla (which, I’m convinced, J.C. himself, were he alive today, wouldn’t go for either), and it’s almost post-2019 (gracias a dios), so I’m looking forward to 2020 – such a nice, rounded, even number, don’t you think? – and all of its positive potential, plus I’m ruminating (Taurus bovine that I am) on other things, past and present, which is always a good thing to do – don’t you agree? – especially as one year comes to a close and another lies ahead like the unopened door each of us is approaching;

first, I can’t believe I’m doing this, something I never would have accepted from my Freshman English students, writing a run-on (and on and on) sentence for others to actually read, but here I am flouting the rules, risking a bad grade, because I’ve reached the age (I’ll turn 75 this coming May) where I question manmade rules and sometimes bend or break them, and I think that’s okay, in fact more than okay, necessary, because some of the rules made by men to control others are just plain wrong and it takes years to come to this conclusion; take Christmas, for instance: I’ve learned (of necessity) to do it my way, which is to say, I choose solitude and a good book (Lost Children Archive was totally perfect for me this year) over socializing – not because I don’t love my loved ones but because I’m no fun to be around at this time of year – yes, I’m one of “those” and I’m not apologizing for myself anymore; that’s another good thing about reaching this age, you take a stance, plant your flag and say, “This is who I am, this is who I was meant to be!” and there’s a refreshing freedom in this – I’m even thinking of it as something of an art form — to be happy to be alone with a good book and a mixed bag of memories to open (or not) like wrapped gifts under an imaginary tree; so instead of self-pity (Why haven’t I had a “normal” life?! Where did I go wrong?) I now take pride in my “other-ness” and my heightened identity with the unseen others of this world who for whatever reason can’t even imagine having such a tree; yes, I’m running on, aren’t I? – toward what? – what’s my point? – what’s the point? – well, it always boils down to this for me:  only God knows what’s behind the facing door; my task is to just keep running (actually, at this age, walking) toward it, regardless, so that maybe I’ll be able to say in the end, as Paul wrote to Timothy: “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith” (II Timothy 4:7); well, vamos a ver…