No Resolutions, No Word for the Year

instead...stillness

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Photo Credit Pixabay Contributor Steve Fehlberg

Solstice evening, I walked outside. The few brief hours of late December sunlight were now almost gone as the sun disappeared behind the hills, swallowed up by the gathering gloom of an opaque twilight. The air was cold and the ground unyielding and icy. It was not yet dark enough for the stars to be visible to the naked eye, and the sky yawned above the landscape, blank and dull.

The sense of an impending ending hung in the air. In the distance, howls and yelps from a band of coyotes sliced into the stillness. Their harsh snarls seemed to gobble up the remaining moments of half-light, tearing into the air and ripping apart the remnants of any lingering light before total darkness settled over the woods. Their cries were primal, and the longest night was absolute.

The quality of the moment was unmistakable, and that’s why I wanted to make sure that I was outdoors to bathe in it. It’s a mistake to always hide ourselves away inside our artificially lit and heated homes, mesmerized by blue-light screens that hypnotize us with pixel patterns and coordinated speech that shape our thoughts and experiences. Screens and speakers that are meant to feed us carefully curated information that dulls our senses, curbs our curiosity, and demystifies our existence.

It’s good to stand in the half dark on solstice night, uncomfortable from the cold, confronted by the ancient songs of coyotes and confounded by the growing darkness. Forget about the science, in fact, don’t trust the science, because science tells you that solstice is just another day, a short day, of course, but nothing perplexing, nothing potent, nothing we can’t explain. Nonsense. Solstice is powerful and supernatural in its symbolism and the deep remembering that it activates. In even the most conditioned urban dweller, it shakes loose the neatly, stacked explanations we’re taught.

Darkness matters. What matters even more is that light returns. At the solstice, we drift about in limbo for a few days until the moment when we gain just a tiny bit more light than darkness. By Christmas day, the shift is noticeable for those who are carefully watching and open to feeling time. Oh yes, you can feel the quality of time if you are willing to cultivate that peculiar faculty.

This qualitative shift is proclaimed and sung in so many of the traditional Christmas passages and carols. This emphasis on light and the comfort it brings sustained me all through the season of Advent. I was waiting for the Light of the World, a light that would shine on those who walked in great darkness, and I was continually reminded in every Advent reading to be comforted because the Light had come.

When Christmas finally came and I stepped out into the night, the howling of coyotes no longer brought the threat of being devoured by tearing, ripping jaws. Instead, I heard noble creatures calling, drawing their community together, providing food in the face of winter starvation, and raising a call to impress a prospective mate so that in the spring, new life would tumble out of dens beneath fallen trees and rocky overhangs. Darkness distorts. The returning light, even in a small measure, restores goodness. So it is with our lives. When we are terrified in the darkness, everything is a demonic shriek. But when even just a single photon pierces the darkness, restoration begins.

Photo Credit Pixabay Contributor Franz Bachinger

I have lived this season, in reality and mythically. I’ve allowed myself to feel it all, the terror of darkness and the comfort of light. I’ve embraced the archetypal pattern of darkness threatening to extinguish the light, and the light, in turn, triumphing. While spring is a long way off, the seed of light has already been planted in my being. While winter rest remains the modus operandi of January and February, the energetic current of returning light and life has already electrified my inner being. It will lie quiet, nearly dormant for now, but as the equinox approaches, it will intensify.

This then brings us to the marking of the new year. Two thousand twenty-six, that number, as a year, would have sounded nearly impossible to grasp if I had considered it in 1980, the year I graduated high school. We are now more than a quarter-century into the first century of the new millennium. The last twenty-five years have produced massive, maybe even unprecedented changes in our world. Not all for the better, in fact, very few for the betterment of our lives as it turns out.

However, the lessons of this past Advent have not been forgotten so quickly. Darkness is always overcome by light, and the promise of light brings comfort. I’m holding on to that as we cross the threshold into the new year. But that’s just a musing that will rattle around in the corners of my brain, a reminder that there are patterns that guide and, to a degree, even govern what life on earth looks like.

I’ve been considering how to enter this new year. For starters, I’m not making any resolutions or promises, setting any goals or targets. In fact, I’m not contemplating a direction, not even a general one. I’m also not choosing a word, phrase, or mantra to guide me. I’m not planning on manifesting, attracting, or generating in any way.

This year I’d like to be a tabla rasa, a blank slate. Like St. Peregrine, I’d like to set off on the vast sea in my little coracle without sail or rudder. I know this is a bit of a contradiction, choosing not to have a plan of action is, in fact, selecting a kind of plan. I suppose you could say that I am choosing contemplative listening and non-action as my default, acting only when said contemplative listening has convinced me that action is required in response to what life has presented to me.

Why? Why a year of contemplative listening and stillness? The answer is simple. Clarity. My intuitive senses tell me that 2026 will be a year of very challenging, disruptive, and deceptive events at both the macro and micro levels. Uncoupling from active participation allows me to perch on a high spot and, in stillness, carefully observe, listen, and evaluate. Metaphorically, I’d like to emulate Simeon Stylites the Elder, who climbed a pillar in Syria in 423 CE, desiring to be removed from the world to fast and pray in solitude. He remained there until his death 36 years later.

As this year unfolds, I will carry with me the essence of the seasons, the interplay of light and darkness, and the transformative power of listening and stillness.

These reflections bring me solace as the world around me continues to shift. The long nights of winter may initially feel daunting, but they also foreshadow the inevitable return of light. It’s a cycle as old as time, reminding us that light always triumphs over darkness, even when it seems far away.

In the stillness of the dark as I live out my “no plan” plan in 2026, I expect to find opportunities to listen deeply not just to the echoes of nature or the whispers of my heart, but to the subtle vibrations around me. This contemplative approach nurtures a deeper understanding of what is truly needed as I approach the new year. Perched in my metaphorical pillar, I remain open, allowing events to reveal themselves in their own time rather than imposing my will upon them.

Embracing this blank slate mentality offers a unique freedom. Instead of propelling myself into a flurry of goals and directives, I honor stillness as a choice. Listening becomes my compass, a way to feel the pulse of life without rushing to shape it prematurely.

This doesn’t mean I will retreat into apathy; instead, I’m prepared to stand poised to respond with clarity and purpose, informed by intuition rather than impulse. Each moment of silence I gift myself becomes a vessel for understanding, a space where light can seep in gradually, illuminating not only my path but also the myriad possibilities ahead.

As I welcome the unfolding days of 2026, I choose to be guided by this gentle light, allowing it to grow and nourish my spirit. I acknowledge that every act of stillness adds to the light within me, fortifying my capacity to face whatever challenges may arise. The lessons of the solstice remind me to stay grounded in the present, transcend fear, and welcome growth.

In the quiet moments that stretch before me, I find hope, a hope cradled by the darkness yet ignited by glimpses of light. It’s within these seasons of stillness that the greatest transformations often take root. So, I step forward into this new year, holding space for both the shadows and the light, ready to listen and respond as life unfolds, trusting in the resilient power of illumination to guide me through the uncertainties ahead.

Enjoy every moment of the year. Each month is a gift, each season of life filled with goodness beyond measure.

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