This Year

beach 1931

This year, I will
spend more time at the beach,
with sand between my toes.

This year, I will
give up on the goal of less coffee
because more coffee means more pleasure,
and some vices are good.
I will indulge in a second piece of cake when offered,
and ironically stop worrying
that I'm so permanently skinny.
Who cares.

This year, I will
stop saying yes
when I really mean no,
and stop saying no
when I'm too afraid to say yes.
I will stop caring what perfect strangers think,
and hold close the opinions
of those who care for me.

This year, I will
leave aside mandatory daily moments for
savouring the first sip of coffee
rather than chugging it down in a rush,
prolonged belly rubs for a furry friend called Kobi
rather than distracted pats,
five minutes of daydreaming
rather than relentless mental list-making,
a few seconds of smelling my perfume
rather than carelessly putting it on.

This year, I will
write
so very much,
just for my own pleasure
and no-one else.
I will take time to enjoy words
rather than edit them.
I will marvel at their simplicity
and unknowability,
especially those untranslatable ones:

Cafuné (Brazilian Portuguese): The act of tenderly running your fingers through someone's hair.

I will also run my fingers through someone's hair,
while thinking of these words.

This year, I will
be more protective of my time,
it's in short supply these days.

This year, I will
stop making lists of things
I cannot possibly hope to achieve,
or even want to undertake.
But I will write a new list
if I don't have the
courage, sense, or wisdom,
to follow this one.

* * *

Happy new year!

Image credit: a day at the Beach, 1931.