One of many beautiful sunrises at Higgins Lake in Northern Michigan, where I spent time this summer.

“And suddenly you know: It's time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.” Meister Eckhart

A new year is upon us

Today, my father sent me an email with a reflection by Anne Lamott, and it made me cry and laugh and hope. I hope that it will ease your transition into this new year and remind you of the sweetness of life.

A reflection by Anne Lamott

This year I have our collective condition on my heart, which is existential exhaustion, disbelief and disorientation. I keep thinking bitterly that I am just *done*, like an overcooked rump roast; just *done.* I have been an excellent sport for nearly two years—think Dinah Shore with dreadlocks. Grace, which always bats last, saw me through pretty much unscathed relative to most people in the world, although a few scathes have come up recently. But the good sportsmanship was based on this all coming to an end at some point, and right now, I’m not convinced that it will. It’s like being in a whiteout, where you can’t easily tell which is up and which is down or sideways.

So: now what?

My friend Tom W said, ‘We remember what Susan B. Anthony’s lovely, sober psychologist granddaughter said: ‘We remember to remember.’” And that’s the answer.

We remember that we are alive.

We remember the old tried and true things that always bless us—gather if we can, pay gentle attention to others, get outside even in the cold and wet, send money to the poor (and to NPR).

We remember to give thanks that, after so much has been taken from us, so many blessings remain: the frost on the irish green grass this morning, a long hot shower because it has been pouring rain and the reservoirs are full again, and oh God, am I grateful for indoor plumbing. (Some days when I am in my right mind, it is almost all I need.) We say thanks over and over for everything that still works, all that we still love, views that still blow us way. Gratitude is the fountain of youth. It’s soul food—chicken and waffles and peach cobbler. It’s magnetized.

We remember that spring will here soon, proving every year as it does that life is stronger than death, than all the crap and chaos. Yes, the leaves are brown and dead, and after a few more storms they will lie at the feet of the bare trees, and the trees already look like they have had strokes, but we remember to remember that a green shoot will pop out one of these days, from a crack.

We remember to sing and dance. Alone is just fine. Wheelchairs fabulous. Music is about as physical as it gets: your essential rhythm is your heartbeat; your essential sound, your breath. We’re walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix, it somehow lets us meet in places we couldn’t get to any other way. Meet yourself there. That’s why you’re here.

We remember lines of poetry that people have foisted on us over the years: Tom reminded me of Gerard Manley Hopkins writing about “the dearest freshness deep down things”—life and health in the earth, where we can’t see them, fully alive, roots bringing life to each other and to us. We remember lines of poetry even as we have forgotten, who wrote or gave us the poem—or even the exact wording, but either Mary Oliver or James Wright wrote about the dark dark dark sea on which if we are paying attention, we suddenly see the reflection of a star.

Today I will remember what my priest friend Terry says, that the point is not to try harder but to resist less; and I will remember that grace finds us exactly where we are but does not leave us where it found us; and I will remember that when we cast our bread upon the water, maybe its return is not the blessing, but the casting, the faithful process and participation. I remember how so many of you have been here and with me through it all, and that has made all the difference. So thank you. Thank you.

I’ve just finished reading Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr, which I highly recommend. One of the most powerful moments in the book happens when a young child rewrites the final line of a play that they are about to perform so that it reads, “The world as it is is enough.” YES.

In classes this month, we will focus on something that world-renowned yoga and meditation teacher Rod Stryker says in one of his guided meditations, which I have been doing during the past month: “Feel yourself merging being with becoming.” I love this idea that I can be both as I am right NOW and becoming something new at the same time. It helps me stay grounded and growing—grounded in the me that is, while also encouraging a future me to take shape. Think of the ways this translates to our yoga practice! That's what we will explore.

My son Henry shared something that the head coach of his football team asked him and all of the other assistant coaches to do: Choose one word that will be your mantra for the year. I love this idea. My word is NOW. Now is hard! But in every moment, it’s all I have. What am I feeling now? What is the person in front of me really saying now? Am I listening now? Am I being honest now? What is the next thing I want to do now? How is my breath now? How is my attitude now? What am I grateful for now? What is driving me crazy now? How can I show up for myself and others now? How can I not procrastinate but instead DO the thing right NOW?

I choose NOW because I hope that what I do, feel, say, and act on NOW will help me merge into the more authentic, loving, joyful, light-filled self that I am becoming.

What’s your word for 2022? I’d love to hear from you.

I wish each of you a healthy and peaceful year ahead full of the magic of beginnings.

Love,

Kate