It’s the first day of the new year.
I am sprawled on my stomach, sinking into the fuzziest blanket I’ve ever owned. It’s a Christmas gift from my parents, which adds to the blanket’s warmth.
I smile at the sea of paper around me. Some scraps are from a vintage ad book I found in a secondhand store. Most of the paper has been carefully cut from magazines. None of it intended for any vision board.
These paper scraps are solely for play. Art for art’s sake. My mid-morning collage, a result of a random desire to explore color, cutting, and creating just for fun.
In a moment I’ll have hot cocoa with Lucky Charms marshmallows. I’m pleased to have figured this NYE thing out. But for now I am lying with the realization I’ve just come to in the shower. It sheds light on why New Year’s Eve was never my favorite. Why my journal is filled with year after year of New Year’s Eve entries riddled with anxiety and sporadic references to time, as I forced my hand through the last thoughts of the year ( because, nine tines out of ten, I waited until the last moment to do so).
I cannot be forced into anything, anymore. Being shoved into a new year, and a new mindset one week after the energetic and emotional slog of the holidays just don’t sit right with my spirit.
I’ve finally figured it out.
I lazily kick my leg, synchronizing with the slow and steady churning of my thoughts. My head and bare chest are supported by a satin pillow. I’m reminded of my time as a child, sprawled in the sunny spot on the living room floor, cutting up a permitted magazine. For this moment, I am both safe and free.
It’s the last day of the first month of the new year.
And thus far, I have lived this year like that moment: surrounded by my favorite things, supported by softness and satin, exploring, creating, enjoying.
I have been present with myself, prioritizing being in a state of ease. Yielding to my inner child.
I could get used to this.
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