Sally Huggins Toner

I spent the last morning of this decade organizing my study. I won’t say “cleaning out” because the ratio of what could have, or what should have been thrown away versus what actually was is…well…

What should be thrown away is such a subjective term, right?

I love my study and its clutter—my grandfather’s coffee cup, my Emily Dickinson Marathon badge, and my Washington Nationals towel cohabitating with school papers, journals, and books. There’s an Edgar Allan Poe lunch box on the top shelf, a Mork and Mindy board game and a kung fu hamster right next to it. There’s the baby in the fighter plane print that used to hang in our first born’s nursery (a gift from her Pop, the aviator). There’s the picture of me and my birth father I’ve posted before. There’s a Vietnam era stereo receiver that belonged to Mark’s dad. There’s a speaker with pins stuck in it, CNN, Kerry/Edwards, Obama/Biden, a “Believe, Achieve, Succeed” button celebrating Black History Month, a breast cancer ribbon…

I think one of my favorite items is the oversized “What Time is Recess?” button on the second shelf.

Why would I throw ANY of that away? The more I stare at that huge wall of shelves made of concrete and plywood, the more I understand that everything in them represents the five decades I have spent on this planet.

The years provide.

They provide people who come into our lives, some who stay and some who don’t. They provide opportunities for creativity. They provide times of illness and health in our minds and our bodies. They provide failure, which I maintain is one of time’s greatest commodities. We never grow from what goes right. Of course, we also don’t grow without love. The years provide that too, if we’re willing to accept it and give it back.

In recent years, I have posted a song that is on my mind on the last night of the year. This year, the years, or the messy study, rather, provided. I found a book of music that is my assignment for the new year. A while back, our dear friend Marianne introduced me to the Gabe Dixon Band. There are so many things I remember about that concert at Jammin’ Java. For one thing, thanks to the connections of being a “plus one,” I got to check off my bucket list the item of touring an actual band’s tour bus. And guess what? I learned that rockers CAN have whole grain bread and Bach inventions tucked inside their traveling home. The other thing I remember about that night is that I heard the song “All Will Be Well” for the first time.

“This song is like musical Prozac,” Marianne said when Gabe started to play. A couple of years later, she gave me a piano book from the album along with an original transcription of that song signed by Gabe himself. While I’ve always treasured it, my attempts at learning the piece have been less than successful. Simply put, my free time is limited, and the song is f-ing hard.

But remember what I said about failure? In 2020, I’m going to learn that song.

Few people would disagree when I say that we enter the new decade in anxious times. My 7:00 yoga class was chock full this morning. Money, politics, the environment, to name a few. The word that comes to mind is “unprecedented.”

So little seems secure, right?

That’s where another of life’s most precious commodities comes in—faith.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about religion. Personally, I’ve always seen one as a language used to express the other. And I’ve seen true faith expressed in too many of those languages to pin it on just one. I’m talking about where we turn when we’re staring at a blank wall—when the empty spaces ahead swallow us or push us back into the dark places we’ve already passed through. That happens. We’re only human. And the decades past have provided fear. So will the ones ahead.

But both also provide joy. A friend of mine, a talented writer and wise person, reminded me of that recently when I was preparing for a workshop I was giving on writing through trauma. As I was collecting excerpts to use as models, I found what seemed to be an endless supply of material.

“I wonder sometimes if all writing is about trauma,” I said to her.

“Not all of it,” she said. “Some of it is about joy.”

Faith is what reminds us we’re not alone. It paints that blank wall with colors we couldn’t imagine ourselves. Faith in sorrow sows the seeds of joy.

So my song this year, attached to this post, is Gabe Dixon’s “All Will Be Well.”

Happy New Year, Happy New Decade.

Listen to Gabe. Whatever happens, all will be well. We promise.

All Will Be Well by Gabe Dixon