This year I didn’t just obsesses about writing, reading, intimacy. I held these loves of my life aloof, with a keen-ness hitherto unknown to me. And it was brilliant. It was more than that. In doing this, I took the straw of that worshipping I had reserved for something less and made it burn as if it were heartwood at which the rest of my loves could all warm our cold, cynical hearts.

This year I spent with people that made me glow, relationships that grew roots, friendships that grounded me. I felt the jagged edges of the world and its cruelty too, but the people were the balm. There was warmth to be found in sitting around tables, on chairs, on the floor, around a bonfire, passing warm toddies and soft cakes. The kindliness was sometimes silly, at others, it was poetic. Books were discussed, as was poetry. There were conversations, lulls, deep moments of reflections. I also cried, circled in other’s company, warm in another’s arms.