My word for 2025

May this be a year of noticing.

For over a decade now, whenever January rolls around, I have opted to choose a singular word to guide my new years instead of a long list of rigid resolutions. It's a way for me to bottle up my hopes, dreams, and goals for the next 365 days without the fear of failure and shame cycle that so often accompanies the "new year, new me” attitude.

Sometimes, I'm intentional about the word I choose; I hone in on it, knowing what I want to focus my time and energy on to help me grow and become more open. Other times, it comes to me in an unexpected flash of insight, or maybe a slow gentle awakening; without me having to think about it, is the point.

In November of 2024, I was driving along the Thruway, headed to the hospital and a 15-hour overnight shift as an on-call chaplain. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and the light outside was that faint, golden hue that is characteristic of late autumn days on the east coast. I rounded a smooth curve on the road and was nearly blinded by a maple tree just off to the left in my field of vision, its blood red leaves streaked drastically against the impossibly-blue, bright sky. The sunlight dappled through the branch in a way that looked almost magical, like the summer fireflies that come out at dusk, the ones my son tries to trap in mason jars with holes poked through the lid.

I literally gasped at the sight of this, the whole world around me seemingly awash in light and color and movement. I felt like I had found my way into a painting, some Impressionist work of art that belonged on a museum wall in some great room.
And then, a second later, it was gone — flashes of red in my rearview mirror as I put on my blinker and veered over to the exit ramp on my right.

It was one of the most beautiful scenes I've ever witnessed in my whole entire life, and I could have easily missed it had I not been paying attention.

That was the day I decided my word for 2025 was going to be notice.

I remember when my son was born and I'd spend hours holding him in my arms, memorizing every inch of him: the freckles on his back, the reddish tinge in his hair, every dimple and vein a great symphony I was desperate to know each note of.

My daughter, too; on our last flight home after the adoption was finalized, she fell asleep in her seat beside me, and I remember sitting there in 34C just watching her. The curl of her eyelash, flittering as her eyes moved behind her lids into herself as she rested, her head on the plastic tray table in front.

Noticing is hard, great work, I think. It's an act of love. The great poet Mary Oliver once said that attention is the beginning of devotion, and I think that may be precisely why I want to make this year a year of noticing. Because noticing requires me to slow down. It means drinking in the world one sip at a time instead of through one, big gulp. It gives me room to marvel, to feel wonder and awe, to know myself more deeply as I reflect on what I'm feeling and why I may be feeling it.

I want to notice the moment before my eyes open each morning, how the weak gray light of pre-dawn is beginning to illuminate things; the heavy breathing of the dog at my husband's feet; the slight tingling in my arm outstretched under the pillow.

I want to notice the way my body feels and what it needs and how God may be speaking to me before my brain tries to take over, inundating me with things to remember and tasks to check off my to-do list.

I want to notice the smell of coffee brewing, notice the steady dripping sound as it pours into the carafe. I want to notice the aroma of butter frying in a pan as I crack an egg into it for my child's breakfast, notice the leftover crumbs clinging to his lip after he eats his toast.

I want to notice how my lungs open when I take my first deep breath of fresh air, notice how wondrous it is to simply be alive, to have a body that inhales, exhales without me even having to think about it, a body so intricate and precious that it knows exactly what to do to give me what I need.

I want to notice the things my patients left unsaid, the pause in the room, the subtle shake of their hand or twitch of their eye when we talk about things like dying, things like what is left undone and if we're okay with leaving it that way.

I want to notice how kindness and justice are like seeds, nestled into the soil of the everyday; I want to notice the people doing the right thing and the true thing without applause, without any sort of accolades, but simply because they want to, and I want to notice the good fruit that grows because of it.

I want to notice the newest gray strands in my hair, the slight crease at the corner of my eye when I moisturize, the slight ache in my hip, notice these symbols of a life that's being led with honesty, without the air of any pretenses, just me in the skin God put me in.

I want to notice the things that make my heart hurt, notice the cracks in Eden, notice where Spirit is calling me to roll my sleeves up and get my hands dirty in reparation.

I want to fall in love with my life again, with the world, to pay such careful attention to it that it becomes impossible to miss what a glorious miracle it all is. I know, I know; the world is a great steaming dumpster fire, and things are not perfect — far from it.

And yet.

How can I notice what is beautiful anyway, not someday down the road but today, in my right-here, right-now life? How can I practice the art of living amidst it all?

This year seems as good a time as any to find out.

xo,

PS: If you’ve chosen a word for the new year, I’d love to hear about it!