We're a Constellation.
On time off, little selves, and finding the light.
At the end of 2024, I took time off. As a long-time freelancer, the end of my year is always different. Sometimes I’m covering for people on vacation, sometimes I’m writing my heart out, and other times I’m wrapping up one year and visioning for the next. But thanks to an inkling I had in October, this year I boarded a plane for Texas. Instead of marking time by writing or reviewing, I decided to go from one year to the next surrounded by family, friends, and sunny blue skies.
My parents and I hadn’t spent the holidays together since 2017. Part of this was the pandemic; part was random work schedules; and part was just life. The last time I remember visiting Dallas in December, it snowed. I can still see myself standing in my friend’s apartment next to his adorably-decorated tree. Good music was playing because he always played good music; I was wearing my favorite peacoat, the one with the gold buttons; and fluffy white flakes fell from the sky like confetti.
This year it didn’t snow, but it was cold and bright, which felt like the holidays. On New Year’s Eve, I sat beside my mom on the couch. My Dad sat next to us in his favorite chair watching the crowd in Times Square wait for the ball to drop. I looked at my mom. “Do you want to do a last night of the year ritual?” I said. “Yes!” she replied, smiling. We got paper and pens and got to work, writing a list of everything we wanted to leave behind in 2024. (Thanks for the idea, Chani!) As the clock inched closer to midnight in New York, my list grew longer, which felt good. This last year was challenging. I wanted to clear the decks and make space for something new.
Once we finished writing, we ripped each line into a strip of paper. Then, per the instructions, we kept going. I closed my eyes, held each item to my heart, and thanked it. I envisioned my life, the one in 2025, without it. And then I tossed the strip into a bowl on the coffee table. My mom did the same. I showed her one of mine, and she showed me one of hers, and we giggled. Lined by line, I thanked each one, imagined a world where it didn’t exist, anymore, and let it go. It was magic, made more powerful because my mom and I did it, together. I could almost feel the women in our family hovering above us, cheering us on. Our strong female ancestors were always there, within us, but also with us. Once we finished, I emptied the bowl into the recycling bin. Goodbye, hard things! Goodbye, rough year! Moments later the ball dropped in New York and we cheered, ringing out the old. Ringing in the new.
The next morning I felt lighter than I had in months. Maybe it was because I was on vacation, away from the constant, months-long construction noise; maybe it was the fluffy comforter and joy of seeing my people; or maybe it was the act of showing up and letting go. As if on cue, after months of not writing, my writer came back. I woke up with lines in my head, a character talking to me like she’d been there, all along. She was the main character in a new story that was just beginning, one I’d been thinking about but hadn’t written, yet. It was a few days before #mini1000, so I started early. I ran to my journal and wrote as long as she spoke, making it real. I had two other writing projects to finish, but I knew this one would be important in 2025. And on the first day of the new year, I had a way in.
That week, my dreams came back. I woke up with the sun every morning and went to bed with a book every night, staying off social media and being present with my people, instead. Construction noise was replaced with walks with my dad and going through old photos; cleaning out tubs of childhood treasures (Bowie posters! Pee Wee pillowcases! Old love letters! Chairry!) and hearing stories from my parents. We watched movies, visited family, made healthy food, and laughed. They even joined me in an online Zumba class! At the end of the trip, I stayed with a friend and filled myself with art, something I sorely needed. We went to the museum, where I discovered Cecily Brown and was forever changed; visited one of my favorite spots, Thanks-Giving Square, which was designed by Phillip Johnson and was filled with light and hope; and wandered through Half-Price Books like when we were kids, searching for discoveries, hungry for new experiences and the lastest on-sale Taschens.
The hard times have come, in so many ways, for so many of us, our family, friends, and communities. My heart goes out to you if you’re hurting right now. Despite the awfulness of the month, I’ve found refuge in writing and working with writers, helping them get their work into the world. On January 25th, I read that the planets would all be aligned in a straight line so we could see them. I also read the astronomer's post debunking it, but I loved the idea. That night, I’d go out and stargaze; I’d look up and see every planet in a row, just waiting for us. I thought about the stars, too, which made me think about us, writers and makers, artists of all kinds. On Notes, I posted this:
Keep making things, bright lights. Keep writing. No matter what comes, together, we’re a constellation.
xo,
Kari
January’s Good Things
1. Cecily Brown, Dallas Museum of Art.
2. Phillip Johnson’s heart-lifting Thanks-Giving Square
3. The Matrix by Lauren Groff, Free Day by Inès Cagnati, The Wedding People by Alison Espach, All Fours by Miranda July
5. Grand Gesture Books in Portland, Oregon, and online. Go, Katherine, Go! It’s an incredible space, fabulously curated, and full of love. Support, rom-com lovers!
6. Thank you, David Lynch. Forever and ever.
7. I love you, L.A.! Resources to help.
Thanks, as always, for reading, sharing, and liking. Pausing in February, new look coming in March. Want to book a session with me? Or learn more about how I work with writers? Send me a note at kari@kariluna.com. I’m here to help and cheer you on. xoxo
