... or February. Because "this is our house, we make the rules..." and because I love their gentle light. I have a covered front porch and I only put lights up around the perimeter of that little porch, softly embracing the porch swing with blue pillows, the little mosaic table, the old wooden chair, the old door with stained glass, the mailbox with the wreath still hanging above it. I can wrap myself in blankets and feel so cozy there with a cup of tea, gazing at the trees and the blooming rhododendrons. (They should not be blooming right now, but they are. Not a full bloom, but there are big, vibrant pink blossoms on them and I am choosing to enjoy them.)
And this is how my new year begins, with an appreciation for the old friend that is my home, and for deciding that I'm going to do it my way, and shrugging my shoulders at whatever I'm supposed to do and doing what my gut tells me is right.
I'd planned to get up early and plunge into Puget Sound this morning, but last night it became clear that I'm coming down with a cold. I've decided that next weekend is my polar plunge, and my big beginning to the year. This makes sense to me: I have a houseguest coming this week (she arrives tonight) and my plan for this year is to be more solitary so that I can focus on my writing... and houseguests aren't exactly what I meant. Plus, Katherine was home until 9pm yesterday, and with my head buzzing and my eyes itching and my throat scratching, it was not the beautifully calm evening I had planned to bring in my new year.
But I get to make the rules. I'm leaving the lights up, and I'm ushering the rest of my year in next weekend. Ish. Because I'm doing it now, too.
No rules.
My rules.
Both.
Over the past year I've been returning to my pagan roots - the ancient traditions that are still in my bones, the ones that have space for a divine feminine; the ones that encourage me to embrace what I know is true and to listen to my own heart rather than some prescribed path that was never made for me. To write this down, in a public space, and to claim it as my own, well, it feels bold and new and exciting and a little scary.
But mostly, exciting.
This year I'm leaning into the magic, embracing it more fully than ever. I'm burning orange candles for creativity; I'm simmering little pots of cinnamon (protection) and oranges (positivity); I'm bathing in lavender (silence and calm). I'm lighting a million white candles; I'm doing meditation and yoga; I'm moon bathing. I'm tending plants inside and outside my house, but particularly outside those plants are wilder and wilder. From where I sit, I see a foxglove, planted there by a bird or the wind, and it feels like a blessing and a gift.
And I'm soaking it all up: the porch lights, the cozy blankets, the scents, the plants, the moon. I'm seeing signs everywhere I go, and though they were always there for me and anyone else who wants to see them, the fact that I can see them more clearly than ever feels magical. My life is imbued with magic.
This year will be extraordinary, and I feel it in my bones. Change is bubbling inside my bones like champagne bubbles (or is it prosecco?), like the Ligurian Sea by Monterosso, like the shock and joy of a cold plunge that reminds every bone in my body that I am alive.
My word for the year is Creativity. I'm off to a good start, as by accident (Tessa's bestie, Anna, came over before Christmas and brought a crochet project she's been working on; Tessa immediately picked up the hobby for herself, and then a few days later I joined her) I've been crocheting. Now I know what a hank is; now I know how to chain stitch and granny square, and I've finally mastered how to count off and where to change to make a corner. I'm making a soft, sky colored blanket in a delicate shade. I like that the yarn contains real wool, and as I move it through my fingers I wonder about the wooly sheep that brought it to me. The wool is imported from Peru, so I picture ancient mossy stones, rolling green hills, shepherds and shepherdesses in thick sweaters in traditional patterns (or maybe in Patagonia fleece?) tending the flock so that it could reach someone like me, far across the world. The repetitive motion is incredibly soothing, and I swear that there is a bit of magic in each knot, untangling my mind.
But crochet is a hobby, and writing is my life's work. This blog is my little warmup, my meditation, my settling into myself, but I'm working on a book and... oh, I think the feeling that I have is pride! Pride! In my writing! I am throwing myself into the project this year. I'm making space in my life for it, and it feels quite extraordinary.
My office, where I am writing to you now, has gone from being a neglected corner of the house (it actually flooded in the corner every year for the first few years we lived here) that was unfinished and dismal; to a place of serenity and peace (and a fix that means it hasn't flooded in a dozen or more years, despite record rainfall). The warm bamboo floors, "hinting blue" walls, crisp white trim, and simple white desk and bookcase feel like an invitation... but even more than that, they feel like abundance. How is it possible that I have such a space that I can dedicate just to writing?! In the corner there is a cozy chair and ottoman with a woven print of blue and cream dahlias (Dahl-ias!) in the fabric, sitting on a soft blue and white wool rug (wool again!), with a little wooden table beside it. There are shelves full of books and photographs. My vision board is on the wall; across from it hang my three diplomas. Added this year is a desk treadmill, so that I may move my body and get my blood flowing (an idea I got from Ann Patchett when I went to her book talk in Seattle last fall); I alternate between writing at the treadmill and writing in the cozy chair. Every bit of it is a gift to myself, from the plants in the windows to the candles to the art (a favorite piece came from Etsy, and contains the reminder "We are the granddaughters of the witches you couldn't burn)".
The telling of all of this is a magical chant, and the message of the chant is this:
You have everything you need.
You are ready.
You are safe.
You are a creator.
You have abundance.
The time is now.
Just as I was able to turn corner of my home from alternating dusty and damp into a refuge and beauty, I am able to turn the dusty and damp places inside myself into something beautiful.
I am meant to be a writer. I have always been a writer, actually, from the earliest memories of knowing how to form words on a page. It's what I've been doing all this time, in fits and starts, but now it's what I'm meant to do with depth and consistency. And the magic is this: I can do it, and I'm already halfway there.
I've always been a writer, and now I'm going to be an author.
It's 2024, and I have spent so much time laying down the foundation for this very moment. This is our house, we make the rules. This is my witchy, spiritual life, filled with comforting soups and candles and laughing girlfriends and a daughter who is made of light and love and magic and goodness, in a home that radiates warmth and joy. This is the place where I can turn dust and damp into meaning and beauty.
I couldn't have afforded this house if it didn't have dust and damp; they were gifts to me so that I could secure it. And I have it in my to build something from nothing: love and light from dark and cold. I spent years working on it, clearing the spaces to let the light in.
And now it's more ready than ever, and I'm more ready than ever.
2024 is going to be extraordinary. Creativity and light, saying no to what doesn't serve me so that I can say yes to what does.
Happy new year. Let it be so!
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