Ripples of time: a new dawn

Reflections on Presence and Tenderness

Jan 19, 2025

“But how could you live and have no story to tell?” ― Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights

January 16, 2025

From the comfort of my living room—the soft glow of the lamp casting warm light on the walls, a cup of tea steaming beside me—I find myself trying to shape thoughts into words. The warmth of the room feels like an embrace, wrapping around me like a familiar blanket on a cold night, mirroring the way reflection cradles both the joys and the aches of life. It’s a comforting weight, grounding me in the present while softening the sharp edges of memory. It’s a space where thoughts unravel gently, like threads loosened from a tightly wound spool, revealing the patterns woven through another year gone by. This is not unusual for the second day of the year, but today the act feels different. Less like writing resolutions and more like tracing the outlines of the past and the possible, tentative and unfinished, a map not yet fully drawn.

The word I carry into this year is "presence." It feels like the stillness of a forest clearing after a storm, a call to pause and take in the world as it is. Last year, I often felt like I was running—toward goals, away from fears—but presence asks for none of that. It asks for the courage to stay, to notice the small details: the warmth of sunlight through a window, the rhythm of breathing, the sound of leaves brushing against one another in the wind. Presence is my way of promising myself not to rush past the beauty of the ordinary.

It’s not a novel choice, nor is it dramatic. But after a year marked by growth and moments of quiet wonder, presence feels both grounding and aspirational. This time last year, the word I held close was "tenderness" – a call to soften in the face of life’s hard edges. This year, I feel an urge to be present not just in moments of joy but also in uncertainty, in the in-between spaces where life is neither simple nor easy to define.

The Art of Being Here

Last year, a friend asked me what my favorite memory of the year was. I hesitated, overwhelmed not by the lack of moments but by their abundance. How do you choose one highlight in a year of countless vivid moments? How do you sift through the big milestones—a long-awaited trip, a promotion, a family reunion—without sidelining the quiet joys: the sound of rain on an afternoon train ride, the first bite of a perfect pastry, laughter shared over a late-night phone call?

My answer, then, was simple: being here.

Presence is not about ignoring the future or forgetting the past but about holding space for the now—like the still surface of a lake, its reflection shifting with the changing light of day or the stirrings of wind. When the sky is clear, it mirrors the heavens in perfect clarity; when storm clouds gather, it holds their shadows without resistance. Presence invites us to remain, to watch as each moment ripples and settles, offering glimpses of both beauty and turbulence in turn. I think of a summer morning spent by a pond, the surface alive with tiny movements—the leap of a fish, the soft skid of a dragonfly—each ripple fading into stillness again. Watching, I felt a quiet contentment in the ebb and flow, a reminder that even the smallest disturbances hold their own beauty before settling back into calm. Moments in life are much the same, rippling outward before they too settle, leaving behind traces of their passing. It is the delicate thread stitching moments together, grounding us as the world spins on. To let the weight of yesterday’s sorrows and tomorrow’s worries settle lightly in the background, as you meet the moment unfolding in front of you. It is the quiet art of being here—no more, no less.

The Tensions of More

I’ve often struggled with the idea of wanting more. To desire more experiences, achievements, or even simple joys can feel like greed—a discontent with what already is. But last year taught me that there is a quiet rebellion in redefining what "more" means.

More does not have to mean accumulation. Instead, it can mean depth—like diving into a single, still pool and discovering an entire world beneath the surface. I remember sitting in a small park one autumn afternoon, watching the golden leaves drift lazily onto the water. It seemed so ordinary at first, just a quiet moment in a day. But the longer I stayed, the more I noticed—the delicate patterns of the ripples, the way sunlight broke into shards on the surface, the subtle shift in the air as evening approached. Depth, I realized, is not always found in grand gestures but in staying long enough to truly see. Depth manifests in the richness of a conversation where silence feels as meaningful as words, like the time I sat with my grandfather on the porch as the sun set. We barely spoke, but the quiet held everything we needed to say. It’s also in the act of revisiting a familiar place and noticing details you’ve never seen before—like returning to an old hiking trail and realizing how the sunlight filters differently through the trees at dawn. These moments teach me that depth is found not in what is said or done, but in how fully we inhabit them. It’s the way a relationship grows when you truly listen, or how a single moment lingers when you give it your full attention. More listening, more noticing, more allowing life to unfold without the compulsion to grasp at it or shape it into something else.

As Ocean Vuong wrote, "So what if all I ever made of my life was more of it?"

And so, this year, I want to insist on life as it is. To lean into complexity—to meet both joy and pain with the same openness, trusting that each holds its own form of fullness. I want to unearth the layers of each moment, to find what lies beneath the surface and marvel at its intricacy.

On Carrying Tenderness Forward

Last year’s word, "tenderness," feels too precious to leave behind entirely. I think of one winter evening, sharing a quiet dinner with an old friend. We spoke of loss, of hope, of the delicate balance of carrying both at once. There was a silence after her words, not empty but full—the kind of silence where the weight of shared understanding feels almost tangible. In that moment, tenderness was the warmth of her hand on mine, the unspoken assurance that neither of us needed to carry our burdens alone. Moments like that remind me why tenderness matters—it’s the thread that connects us, even in the midst of life’s hardest truths. I think of tenderness not as fragility but as a courageous softness: the willingness to face life’s sharp edges with open hands. It’s a kind of strength, one that grows with practice. Tenderness asks us to be present in a way that invites vulnerability, to let ourselves feel deeply even when it’s uncomfortable. As Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, "Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final." This openness, this willingness to embrace the full spectrum of experience, transforms tenderness into a quiet act of courage.

This year, I want to carry that tenderness forward—not as a separate intention but as part of what it means to be present. Because to truly be here requires a kind of gentleness, a quiet attention to the textures of the moment, whether they are smooth or rough. Tenderness teaches me that vulnerability is not a weakness but a gateway to deeper connection—to life, to others, and to myself. I think of the words of Brené Brown: "Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity." It reminds me of a moment last year when I stood before a group of friends, sharing a story that left my voice trembling. The fear of judgment dissolved as their warmth met my openness, and in that exchange, I felt the power of being seen for all that I am. Tenderness turns vulnerability into strength, forging bonds where walls might otherwise stand.

Looking Ahead

2025 is a number, an arbitrary marker of time passing, and yet it feels heavy with meaning. It’s like standing at the threshold of a door you’ve opened many times before, but this time pausing to notice its frame—worn, familiar, yet still full of promise. Thresholds hold a quiet power: the space between what has been and what could be. This moment feels significant because it asks for reflection before the step forward, for a pause to acknowledge the past even as I lean into the future. It feels like the weight of stepping through a threshold, the kind of transition where you pause, not out of hesitation, but to marvel at the doorway itself. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that each new year gathers the echoes of those before it, layering moments like the rings of a tree—a quiet testament to time’s passage. There’s a resonance here, like a deep bell sounding, reminding me of the words of T.S. Eliot: "Last year's words belong to last year's language, and next year's words await another voice."

Perhaps it’s also a recognition of how finite time is. We measure it, name it, celebrate its passing, as if to make sense of the fleeting. Time feels like sand slipping through my fingers, each grain a moment I tried to hold on to but could only marvel at as it fell. Or perhaps it is more like the pages of a book, turning one after another, each chapter carrying the weight of those before it while hinting at the story yet to come. In its fleeting nature, time asks us not to hold too tightly but to read carefully, to live each line before it is gone. And yet, as we step into another year, there’s an opportunity—not to conquer time but to embrace it. To let its rhythm guide us, rather than fighting against it.

I don’t know what this year will bring. I have plans, of course, and dreams to work toward. But I’m trying not to clutch them too tightly. Instead, I want to approach them with curiosity, letting the year unfold in ways I cannot predict. To be present, after all, is to embrace the unknown—to trust that what unfolds will be enough.

So here’s to 2025, to more life, and to the courage to live it fully. Here’s to the messy, beautiful, imperfect art of being here. To my friends, to strangers who may one day read this, and to my future self: let us hold this year with care—with tenderness, presence, and gratitude.

I am leaving you all with a song that resonates to me on this new beginning,