The New Year lies before me like a beautiful, new journal. Crisp, clean, perfect pages ready for the story I will tell. As I inhale the papery goodness I am euphoric with possibility.
This is not the year of resolutions or goals. This is the year of possibility. Possibility can’t be broken or unmet. It doesn’t hang around your neck like a noose ready to strangle your shiny new dreams. Possibility is a glass-half-full ray of sunshine. It’s a sparkly pink unicorn floating on a fluffy cloud shitting rainbows.
Failure doesn’t exist in this utopic world of possibility. This year it’s possible for me to create more, embrace more and fear less. And then it’s possible again. And again. And again. With no resolution imposed time frames or target dates, time is robbed of its power. Every moment has the promise of more.
Of course there is also the possibility that I will screw up spectacularly or that something awful will happen. In this world of unicorns and rainbows this part of the refinement process, helping to purify me into my true self – the fierce, tenacious self who dusts off the shards of doubt and lunges for that which is just out of reach.
So which version of me will write this year’s story? The daughter, mother, partner or friend? The truth speaking, community loving people pleaser? The selfish, ass kicking rule breaker? What a magnificent story it would be if everyone came to play – if all versions of me were tethered only to each other and nothing else.
The beauty of this year I am writing is that possibility births itself as the story unfolds. I have not pre-determined my year by establishing resolutions and goals. It’s a freaking free-for-all of adventure, grief, heartache, triumph, inspiration – who knows? It’s all there for the taking. And take I will. I’ll take it all.
The year of possibility, bring it.