A thin blanket of silent snow has freshened my world. The last gift of what has been a busy and (mostly) joyful few weeks of holiday celebrations. December, that hasty month, is over, and I sit in the sunroom in the early morning dark, heater buzzing, sipping dark roast coffee, and contemplating the year to come.
This post might seem to be a few days late by worldly reckoning; all of the New Year’s posts have already been rapturously read and promptly forgotten, after all. But who has time for deep thought when the kid is home from school and the house is still in shambles? And anyway, my holidays don’t end until my anniversary (Dec. 30th) and my birthday (Jan. 2nd) have come and gone.
I’ve felt no burning desire to make resolutions, but I do intend to do a few things this year nonetheless. One of those is paint a self portrait. Another is to learn to play bar chords. Another is to get up early five mornings a week to read and write. I’d like to learn how to do one or two interesting hairstyles with my ever-lengthening locks. I’d like to spend less time on Facebook, more time reading articles that feed me as a writer.
But I haven’t any hard and fast goals — write 1000 words each day, lose fifty pounds, quit this, start that — beyond these vague ideas. The whole idea behind letting some commitments go was to invite more white space into my life, not to then fill that extra time with obligations of my own making. So on those early mornings, my only agenda is to get out of bed and enjoy the quiet time to read, journal, write, edit, blog, and the like. Maybe watch an interview with a writer on YouTube. Something that enhances my life. Something that makes me content.
I’m excited by the possibilities this new year brings, aware of potential disappointments. There’s no “brand new you” I’m working on. Just another year being me, another 365 days to love my family, do my art, and reflect my Creator.