New Year Discoveries

Beginnings and endings are times of reflection. As I reach the end of this year, I inevitably look back. I praise myself for accomplishments, and wonder what I might have done differently. As I look ahead, I also wonder. With a blank slate before me, anything seems possible. In some ways, the idea of a new start on a new year is arbitrary. There is, though, something appealing about a chance for a "do-over" or a "finally do."

Though daunting, the unknown is also exciting. As I imagine all the possibilities, I am determined to get things right. I think that is why, like many people, I make promises to myself at the beginning of a new year. My resolutions tend to fall into two categories: things I want to start and things I want to stop. It sounds simple enough. Why then, I wonder, do I so often seem to fall short?

I thought and thought and thought about this, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, the answer - my answer -came to me. And like many revelations, it was in plain view all the time, rooted in the name of the holiday itself. New.

If I seek out the new, if I discover the fresh in the familiar, I will be doing something hugely important. I will make no specific promises. There will be no rules. No things that I should (or shouldn't) do. I will simply make a commitment to newness, to trying what I haven't, to noticing what perhaps has passed me by. There's a freedom to this kind of thinking. Rather than restrictive resolutions, I'll alter my outlook, one in which every day has a clearly defined, straightforward purpose - discovery.

With no oppressive pledges hanging over me, I will be free to determine my destiny. The discovery could involve anything from the simple to the complex. I could visit a new city, explore different work, try a new recipe, discover a new author. I could take on a cause, hike a hidden path, learn to crochet, write a new story.

While I desire new experiences, I also want to discover the newness in the old ones. The other day, I had a moment like this when I gazed up at the sky. The cloud-covered winter sun has an altogether different feeling than a summer sun hidden by clouds. The winter sun is quietly mysterious. I'd never noticed this before. I'm not sure why it's like that, but it is. Maybe it's because I don't expect to see a warm sun - even a cloud-covered blurry one - in the backdrop of ice and snow and bare trees. Whatever the reason, it is. Quiet. Mysterious.

I could find newness in anything - a sound, a touch, a feeling, even an idea or opinion. I could hear softness in the storm, anger in the calm. I could sense loneliness in a crowd. I could be stirred by the power of a single word. A fresh take on the familiar could lead to more tolerance as I see someone's annoying habits (even my own) as quirky, endearing.

So this new year, I will steady myself as I step into the whirling winds of the unknown. I will breathe with my full being so that everything penetrates. I will do my best to embrace the new and rediscovered things that surround me.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)