It’s New Year’s Eve.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve been enchanted by possibility – empty notebooks, blank canvases, unbroken globes of rock with the promise of a sparkling geode inside. New Year’s Eve is, of course, the calendrical equivalent of these, the cusp of a new cycle, the chance to take a step back and think about what you want to write on the next page. This year has been a good one – but I am more than ready to dip my pen into a fresh pot of ink and get started on 2016. And I’ve got a very rough little plan.
Release that which no longer serves you. Release people, thoughts, and habits that do less than make your very soul sing. Thank them for their lessons, and let go. Burn candles and sage, burn bridges. Pare down your screen time. Pare down your schedule. Eat less sugar, drink more water. Swim in rivers, climb mountains, and breathe very deeply.
Learn voraciously. Travel. Drink down books and poetry and art, talk into the night with folks who know something you don’t, learn French and ancient literary Tibetan, just for the sake of it. Stretch your body, stretch your mind. Do something that ignites the reliable and primal pulse of your survival instinct.
Give yourself sacred solitude. Give yourself honestly to the people you love. Pay attention. Put down your phone. Make plans, keep them. Reach out, and reach inward too. Be radically kind, uncommonly vulnerable, and intensely sincere. Commune with trees and birds and the fish in the lake. Take salted baths and rub warm oils into your skin.
Spill ink from the well, fold oils into the canvas in brilliant hues, pinch soup bowls from river clay. Extend your eye through a lens and a shutter. Build with hammer and nail and cedar. Perform alchemy in the kitchen – turn root vegetables and glistening salmon and woody rosemary into gold.
Wishing you and yours a prosperous, fulfilling, magical 2016 – I’m off to throw on some fur and jasmine, sip on champagne, and have a nice relaxing night in with my love.