scribblechic

The word itself is childish in its implied excess; greedy and passionate, clumsy and jubilant. The sound rolls against my tongue, my lips rounding with delight as the thought curls into a promise of possibility teasing my attention.

My natural tendencies are inclined toward less. I am most comfortable in minimal surroundings, content on a quieter path. Even my habits are unexceptionally unburdensome; my intimacies few, my possessions unextraordinary, my commitments few.

It is strange how chance wedges a suggestion into the unexpected until our thoughts lend roots that we might blossom into action. In my effort to choose a word for the year to come, a word has, perhaps, chosen me.

Just as I might number resolutions for self-improvement into a promise, in naming the year I first seek areas of growth and sources of inspiration in search of a theme that will tether me to conscious intention. Some of my goals are familiar in their failed fruition, others fleeting in their entrancement.

This morning I gathered a list of words, pages of suggestions printed in tidy, unassuming rows that I then read aloud; sounding out each word for resonance. In years past I might stike a line against those words that fell flat against my ears, circling those that kindled a spark within the recesses of my emotions. This year, my pen began scratching tiny addition symbols in the empty margin between rows as certain words begged my attention. Rather than whittling my list to a singular intention, my choices multiplied into a wish for more:

Balance, grace, intention, listening, ownership, play.

One of these words alone would bear a cumbersome responsibility to sustain across the span of a year. Too many words might tempt a fractured attention with broken results. Instead I am considering threading words and days with a message of more; assigning direction to seasons and inviting unanticipated opportunities for more without sacrificing an appreciation for less.

I am certain only of the spark behind the quick sketch in the margin of my words.

The act of naming the New Year is a personal tradition that began in friendship, borrowed from another’s idea it has become a thread of thought that tethers my days to intention against the fullness of life’s daily distractions. Rather than resolutions, too fragile against the brittle stubbornness of old habits, I shape the year by first sounding out a single word that becomes a lens for personal growth.

Today I am scribbling possibilities with the elaborate scrawl of a child playing at their signature. Looping my thoughts around dramatic pen strokes and sounding out the New Year.