If there were weather badges, I would wear winter proudly on a scout-like sash. When friends question why we live in Minnesota, this land of 10,000 frozen lakes, I extol the efficiency of our Toro electric snowblower. When family members encourage us to move where winter temperatures are more moderate, I describe the warmth of my 10-inch, shearling-lined L.L. Bean boots and the safety of their legendary chain-tread sole.

In November and December, the blog posts I was reading, the poetry that landed in my in-box, and even the Sunday morning worship readings often focused on the change of seasons – autumn to winter; harbingers of shorter days and chilly winds necessitating down filled jackets. While not going so far as to advocate hibernation like a black bear, these readings encouraged taking a cue from nature to rest; to slow down and allow space for reflection and, maybe, creativity.

On winter solstice we light candles and sang of that “gentle darkness soft and still.” This year, more than any other, I felt the need to rest and re-charge. As I left church that evening my intention was to breathe deeply; appreciate the dark evening sky and embrace the quiet.

Yet just 10 days later, amidst bubbly toasts and video images of firework displays from Sydney to London, I was ready to surrender to mass media’s flurry of new year’s suggestions all urging “do more.” It was as if the small act of pinning a new calendar on the kitchen wall infected my mind. Rather than mere seconds passing at midnight, one day to the next, one year to the next, I felt I was eons beyond that “gentle darkness soft and still.”

Musician Carrie Newcomer helped me step back from that frenzy and from creating a checklist of busy work, a worksheet of old actions. She proposed moving away from New Year’s resolutions, the resolving of old problems and shifting to New Year’s revolutions. She wrote:

What might happen if instead of focusing on resolving an old problem, we decided to intentionally open our minds to a whole new way of thinking.  What might change if we did as Rilke described and truly welcomed, “the new year, full of things that have never been."  

What might happen if I decided to not just focus on how to keep working with the well-worn grooves of the path before me, but rather, consider what has always held true at the very center of my journey, what true thing do I keep circling around, as the earth orbits the sun.  What if I listened to what sings at the center of my heart, what endures and against all odds, what helps me to see that there is still a path, but it may look different than anything I’ve imagined until now.

As January progresses, I continue to be resolute in my decision to join Carrie Newcomer with a New Year’s revolution. I will strive to revel in that which gives joy (despite the fractious political environment.) To explore the art of creating margins and leaving space for the unexpected – whether walking in the woods, discovering a previously unknown poet, or answering a call to justice. To remain open to the changing world “full of things that have never been.”