I can’t remember the last time I made a New Year’s resolution or picked a word to embody my intentions for the next 365 days (I’d probably forget the word I chose anyway). I don’t want to start 2024 with a list of must-dos (work out more, count steps, record every book I read), because they seem like grim productivity exercises or dreary homework assignments. But I do understand the importance of rituals to mark a kind of hallowed space at significant times like the changing of years. On December 31st, I followed the old custom for the first time of opening my front door at midnight to let the old year leave and the new one enter. It felt both symbolic and sensory, as if the two were crossing paths and brushing up against me at the threshold. And while I was away for Christmas, I made a list of things to look forward to in January instead of moping through the leftover litter and faded glitter from the December holidays. Not a bucket list, but a Be-Here-Now, Close-to-Home list. A list to help me turn the ordinary things that make up the woof and warp of my life into a richer fabric. A list that would weave red-letter threads into the texture of gray winter days. Here are a few I've included.

Make my mother’s recipe for chicken and saffron rice from a faded index card because the dish reminds me of how much I miss her cooking. Give Schitt’s Creek another chance. Eat at a restaurant bar while I read a book and prolong one glass of expensive red wine. Revive the practice of going on solo Artist Dates to nudge me to get out and play. Reread the mysterious, mystical Four Quartets, which I used to do every year. Why did I stop? Watch the new Gary Gulman comedy special on HBO because laughing releases endorphins. Experiment with Posca paint markers and start illustrating my journal again. Nothing lights me up like new art supplies or notebooks. 

As you can see, my list doesn't include any wild adventures, bold exploits, or exotic travel. It doesn't have an end result in mind. It won't expand into a self-help article or book. It's just for joy. And that's just enough.

 

On my birthday trip to the Georgia mountains, I finally got to visit The World’s Largest Bigfoot Museum (happily coinciding with Bacon Festival weekend). For a secret fan of Ancient Aliens, this was the Holy Grail of Goofiness. Blurry videos of Big Foot sightings, swatches of Big Foot fur (hair?), and of course, plaster castings of an actual Sasquatch foot. Watching this gentle giant lumber across the screen I couldn’t help thinking that all the ceaseless hiding and running in the wilderness must leave him with sore, misshapened feet. I can sympathize because years of hobbling around in stylish, stupidly expensive, sometimes-spike-heeled shoes left me with feet that feel just like Big Foot’s look. I was resigned to wearing ugly comfortable shoes for the rest of my life until I succumbed to Rothy’s advertising and friends’ recommendations and ordered a pair. It’s the next best thing to bespoke for my Big Foot feet. And if you happen to track through mud like certain mythical mountain creatures, they’re washable.

 

When I’m sure that I don’t have any thoughts worth putting on paper, I return to Lynda Barry’s method of drawing a spiral as a creative tool. I first started actively using it after a writing class that incorporated exercises from her Making Comics for inspiration. The technique helps clear creative log jams, no matter what kind of work you're doing. But even if I’m not using it to help me write, it’s a valuable meditative technique. The process of building the spiral on paper inevitably calms and centers me. It’s particularly meaningful for me because the tattoo on my wrist is also a spiral—a visible reminder to me of unfolding and becoming. I knew the design I wanted almost instantly, and despite the fact it was inked on me by a follower of the Insane Clown Posse, it’s my version of a portable sacred talisman. Who knew that crossing paths with a Juggalo tattoo artist recommended by a stranger in Hawaii 20 years ago would still be so meaningful? Watch the video and give it a try. 

Paintings by Nathan Edwin McClements…I covet one of his cowboys. Writing I envy, like Swerve by Brenda Miller. Just two short paragraphs in which not a word is wasted but it packs a powerful punch. The gentle little stories of Old Fox and his friends by writer and historian Anne Louise Avery on Instagram. They remind me of the bedtime stories of my childhood, only for adults, and I can't stop recommending them. The recent breakout hit of the sad girl country ballad, “My Love Mine All Mine,” by Mitski. A new season of Hollywood Houselift, in which Jeff Lewis (formerly of Flipping Out) and his staff juggle high-maintenance celebrity clients and their home design projects while negotiating the drama and traffic of LA. It’s pure fluff, and I’m addicted. (Start with Season 1 to get fully hooked.)