Ink and Vein

I’m struggling with the reality that the year is almost over. 2025 did not go over like I wanted, or like I had planned it would, and I can’t help but feel discouraged by my lack of progress on some things, and what feels like regression in others.

I remind myself of all I accomplished instead of what I planned, but still feel the disappointment over not writing more, over not getting my library organized, over my house still being disorganized. I feel discouraged by the fact that I only got out for a couple of hikes, and only went camping once. My body’s achy and aged feeling brings the realization that my once-daily walks are maybe once a week, now, and that I’ve hardly practiced yoga since I stopped teaching in April.

As much as I resist the feeling, holiday seasons are difficult for me. I seem to feel my isolation and my depression and the weight of my baggage just a little bit more at this time of year – when I feel like an afterthought, while people are busy with their families and traditions and partners, and I feel just a little bit more on the outside, and yes, more than a dash of self-pity.

As we prepare for the new year, and I think about how I really need 2026 to be better, it’s tempting to make a long list of strict and specific new year’s resolutions… but I really dislike new year’s resolutions and rarely keep them, so that’s a no for me.

Instead, I’m doing the 13 Magical Nights. I got this from The Glasgow Witch on Instagram. The steps are simple:

1. In the days leading up to the winter solstice, write 13 intentions on slips of paper. Write them as facts, as if they have already happened.
   
2. Fold the papers and keep them safe.
   
3. On the solstice, and every night after, begin burning them one each night, at random, without reading them. The burned intentions are for the universe to take care of.
   
4. On the last night, with the 13th intention, read that, and keep it. That intention will be mine to tend to, my responsibility to see through.

So, on the solstice, and every night since, I lit candles on my altar, made sure that my cauldron was ready to catch the burning paper, and I took a slip of paper out of the bowl.

I hold the paper to the flame, and watch the fire blacken and consume. The paper writhes within the yellow and orange of the flame as it burns, and I drop the paper into my cauldron, watching the paper arc and curve, the flame embracing it as a lover, the black and gray remnants building in the cauldron as each day passes.

This experience is freeing. Writing the intentions was in itself a grounding activity, and a commitment to them. I did not choose specific goals like “go to the gym everyday” or “write for 2 hours every day.” Instead, I wrote things like “I moved my body, daily, in ways that felt good.” This can encompass a wide variety of movement that will improve my physical, mental, and spiritual health without pinning me into a rigid and (for me) impossible goal. Moving my body could mean a lot of things, and the flexibility it allows means I’ll be more likely to do it.

Beyond setting the intentions, letting go of my attachment to them through burning them is also incredibly freeing. I don’t know, yet, which intention will be mine to keep and to tend for the year, but that release of control feels good, too. All 13 intentions are important to me and came out of reflection on how I want to feel and how I want to show up in my life over the next months.

I had similar desires for how I would show up in my life this past year, and nothing seemed to go the way I wanted. The more I tried, the less I could manage.

Sometimes, fighting and trying just wears us out. Sometimes, we have to stop trying, and just surrender.

With each strike of the match, each hiss of flame as it licks at the paper, I surrender. I let go. I release.

I will approach the next months with intention and purpose. Beyond that, I cannot control the outcome or the actions of others. I will do what my heart calls me to do.

Everything else? It can take care of itself.