Letter From a New Year

I asked 2024 what it wants for me and this is what it said.

Dear Earthbound Voyager,

You’re entering a new calendar year with goals and intentions protected by a buffer of spacious compassion for shifting wants, needs, and responsibilities, which is to say that you’ll have a much easier time of it if you don’t get attached to any of it. 

I’m headed for that sweet spot between the islands.

That being said, over this next year, you will continue to:

• Begin each day possible on the mat and meditation cushion

• Learn how to cook for one

• Invite some people in so you can cook for more than one

• Cultivate a life shaped by intuition and loving kindness 

• Nurture a spirit of play through painting

• Connect with the people you love in mundane and meaningful ways

• Remain open to possibilities

You also intend to:

• Finish the first draft of your memoir by the end of June

• Publish a new issue of Both Things Can Be True as close to weekly as possible 

• Rebuild your savings 

Aren’t those all such forward-thinking, yet also in-the-moment verbs?

Before you begin your journey into the new year, remember to put line-dried linens on your bed so you can slide your road-weary body between soft layers of sunshine and wind when you return. This, of course, is harder in Northeast Ohio during the winter months due to perma-cloud, but the intention is what matters most.

Tell each person you love that you see them and hear them and want to meet them in their truth with your whole heart, ready to learn. 

Wear an oil blend of Cedarwood, Clary Sage, and Neroli on your wrists and neck so you catch the fragrance of your comings and goings and leave a gentle reminder of your attempted grace wherever you go. 

Pack a paper map to spread out on a table and find yourself on it, a tiny dot in a swirl of rivers, roads, cities, and towns. 

Carry a notebook and pen to capture the details of the white-haired man in the park whose violin playing makes you cry; of the bus that breaks down with not one, but two flat tires, and its ragged line of passengers restless along the side of the road, some sitting on suitcases, some pacing, most staring into their phones but for the one woman with the purple boots who sits away from everyone, head tipped back, face shining in the sun, singing into the slanting afternoon. 

Don’t forget the extra pair of walking shoes to change into when you step into a puddle of God only knows what while you’re crossing the busy street in a rainstorm, rushing to reach a warm cafe where you’ll people watch and write down snippets of conversation to maybe steal for your novel. 

Find the dancers and learn their dances. 

Be open to falling in love, even if—no, especially if—only with yourself. 

Truly. 

You can be anyone now, even if only for a few moments. 

In fact, consider in detail who you wish to be on this journey and become that woman. How does she walk? With a slow or fast stride? With a sway to her hips? How does she dress? Is it time to embrace purple, too? Is she trying to learn guitar again? Will she say yes to meeting new people? How does she describe herself and her life to these new people? Can she let go of the sad, hurt stories she’s been carrying around for decades and choose instead to tell of the quiet joy in a world gone mad?

This is just a suggestion, but it’s a good one.  

Speak to people as if you know them. What I mean is to be kind and be present. And maybe a little bit weird, but not so much that they run away unless that’s what you’re hoping they’ll do. In that case, let it all out.

You’re going, but you will not be gone. You cannot leave yourself behind. When you feel lost, breathe, feel the sensations of your existence tingling inside your body, sniff your delicious wrists, and remember the clean sheets waiting for you at home.

and then I’m climbing to the very top