A word for a year

This might sound trite, but last year the word I chose for my new year was “magic.” I cringed and laughed when I read that word from a journal entry. What does the word even mean? 

However, the more I think about it, there has been magic this year. I’ve felt it in my morning yoga practice smiling as I wobble in crescent or weep in half to pigeon while Broken Social Scene serenades me. Neko Case sings, “nature isn't magic; it's just a mystery to us” maybe that’s it; my nature, human nature, nature-nature, magic to me. Over the last year, it felt like magic when I watched the sunrise from plane windows or chased ghost crabs with a group of grown-ass friends laughing under a full moon. It was there as I connected with people; over lattes, biscuits, burgers, and (usually) non-alcoholic drinks. Sometimes, the simple relief of a hot shower, that first sip of coffee, or hearing my dogs softly snoring felt magical. 

And some bits of 2022 felt less mystical. Undercurrents of change that might have been a mere blip on the radar for some felt like a hurricane for me. A baby hurricane, perhaps, but emotional branches were shaken nonetheless. And still, I sought support, ever-learning how to care for myself as I grew and accepted that it’s possible to simultaneously be soft and strong, ordinary and extraordinary. I’ve practiced placing a palm against my chest to feel my warm clavicle, breathing, and pausing to ask myself, “What do you need?” 

Maybe it’s not magic at all, but simply noticing. 

Inviting rather than demanding.

Movement. 

Rejection.

Curiosity. 

Grief. 

Play. 

I’m unsure if I’ll set and forget a word this year, but I feel drawn to creativity. Reacquainting myself with the tactile joy of hands-on color, the glide of Caran d’ache across a fresh page.