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  • Dear 2013,

    I am writing you this love letter because I have loved you deeply. Even when my busted knee kept me from walking fast, and my shaky finances kept me from going to the doctor. I have loved you even when I lay awake at night shouting, “Where is the money going to come from?” I have loved your quiet days working at home, writing about immigrants and accordions, women and work, religious hate and healers, wood artists and glassblowers, goldsmiths and weavers. Such is the life of a free-range journalist.
    I have loved you even when I was lonely or sad. I have loved you on the road, and I have loved you in the woods. I have loved you behind the microphone, and I have loved you while holding one, listening deeply to story. I have loved you in Ely, I have loved you in Brainerd, I have loved you along the Mississippi, I have loved you in the hundred splendid sunrises over Lake Superior. I have loved you with paint on my hands, and I have loved you with tears in my eyes.
    I have loved you by letting go of things I love. I have loved you by letting go of old ideas, and you have loved me back by pulling the last loose threads of an anxiety that kept me fixed in them.
    I know you gotta go now, 2013, but I hate to see you go. But if you look back over your shoulder as you’re pulling away tonight, you’ll see me on the porch, waving. And I’ll keep waving ‘til I know for sure you’re out of sight.
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