I managed to set off the smoke alarm while cooking the traditional black-eyed peas this morning. It wasn't a true disaster; I just got caught up in a band chat and a little social scrolling, and the next thing I knew, a bit of pork fat had scorched and the cat was hiding while I fanned the balcony door back and forth in the cold. But if there is meaning in the tradition—and why else would we do it?—then there must be meaning in the bungling as well. It was as though life was saying, "Oh, you want luck? Well then, fucking pay attention." This is always how luck works. But it's easy to forget.
At my first-ever NYE music gig, in a mixed-arts warehouse space of the sort that has become endangered, there was a bonfire. People were invited to create a symbol of something they wanted to leave behind them in the new year, and then cast it on the fire to burn it away. Someone said it was a pagan tradition, but of course that label is so broad as to be almost meaningless. Nonetheless, I recreated that tradition for a number of years: in the fireplace, when I had one; on concrete doorsteps and balconies. Did it work? I don't know. I remember what I threw on the fire, that first year, and it is still with me more than I'd like. There are some things I've managed to leave behind. Most of the things one wants to burn, though, are too complicated to be purged by a single act.
This winter, a friend introduced me to a variation on the fire ritual, one in which you write a number of intentions on scraps of paper and burn them at random, one a night, starting with the solstice and ending January 2 with a single intention, which you keep throughout the year. After a chaotic few years, in which rituals of destruction have felt redundant and explicit resolutions laughable, it's rather appealing to leave some intentions to chance. The mere act of writing desires as positive statements felt far more constructive than my previous approach. So, starting at the solstice, I dutifully burned a few scraps. Then I went to visit my family and left the bowl of paper here. And when I returned, Chicago was so desperately cold and windy that I couldn't bring myself to venture outside for the minute it would take to incinerate the nightly scrap. So now I have a backlog of papers to burn. One doesn't want to get too precious about a ritual from Instagram, of course, but the form does matter. If there is magic in the practice, I suspect I have consigned myself to a year in which nothing happens for a long time and then I get it done all at once. That is the opposite of healthy and sustainable. Whether it's art or intention—and for me, they're nearly synonymous—you're supposed to do a little bit every day. In returning to the practice, you remind yourself of what matters, you guide your attention, you build your own luck.
I don't always get NYE gigs, but they're supposed to be lucky too. I've never been sure how much I believe in that superstition either. But last night's gig felt lucky, when I recognized the silhouettes of friends who'd come out to listen, when I got to meet the new booker at a venue I love, when I stayed later than I planned because the the closing act was burning up the stage with a series of songs I adore—a fire that felt communal, welcoming, not merely destructive. This, too, is the simple luck of paying attention. If you do that, it can be enough.
At my first-ever NYE music gig, in a mixed-arts warehouse space of the sort that has become endangered, there was a bonfire. People were invited to create a symbol of something they wanted to leave behind them in the new year, and then cast it on the fire to burn it away. Someone said it was a pagan tradition, but of course that label is so broad as to be almost meaningless. Nonetheless, I recreated that tradition for a number of years: in the fireplace, when I had one; on concrete doorsteps and balconies. Did it work? I don't know. I remember what I threw on the fire, that first year, and it is still with me more than I'd like. There are some things I've managed to leave behind. Most of the things one wants to burn, though, are too complicated to be purged by a single act.
This winter, a friend introduced me to a variation on the fire ritual, one in which you write a number of intentions on scraps of paper and burn them at random, one a night, starting with the solstice and ending January 2 with a single intention, which you keep throughout the year. After a chaotic few years, in which rituals of destruction have felt redundant and explicit resolutions laughable, it's rather appealing to leave some intentions to chance. The mere act of writing desires as positive statements felt far more constructive than my previous approach. So, starting at the solstice, I dutifully burned a few scraps. Then I went to visit my family and left the bowl of paper here. And when I returned, Chicago was so desperately cold and windy that I couldn't bring myself to venture outside for the minute it would take to incinerate the nightly scrap. So now I have a backlog of papers to burn. One doesn't want to get too precious about a ritual from Instagram, of course, but the form does matter. If there is magic in the practice, I suspect I have consigned myself to a year in which nothing happens for a long time and then I get it done all at once. That is the opposite of healthy and sustainable. Whether it's art or intention—and for me, they're nearly synonymous—you're supposed to do a little bit every day. In returning to the practice, you remind yourself of what matters, you guide your attention, you build your own luck.
I don't always get NYE gigs, but they're supposed to be lucky too. I've never been sure how much I believe in that superstition either. But last night's gig felt lucky, when I recognized the silhouettes of friends who'd come out to listen, when I got to meet the new booker at a venue I love, when I stayed later than I planned because the the closing act was burning up the stage with a series of songs I adore—a fire that felt communal, welcoming, not merely destructive. This, too, is the simple luck of paying attention. If you do that, it can be enough.
RSS Feed