Last year went out with quite a bang and, taking in its final week pop star George Michael and movie star Debbie Reynolds, who some say died of a broken heart just a day after the death of her daughter, Star Wars actor Carrie Fisher. In the aftermath of Fisher's death, images of her in the infamous Princess Leia gold bikini flooded the internet, but I prefer to remember her as General Organa, the powerful and wise leader in The Force Awakens.
Coming as they did in the final days of 2016, these deaths seemed to caution us against being too optimistic about the new year. There is loss in the seed of every new beginning, and while I know that a calendar year doesn’t have any actual consciousness, it has certainly felt, at times, as if it did: as if 2016 somehow sensed the bleakness of world affairs and was snuffing out brightness in symbolic harmony.
Maybe it’s just me, but 2016 has felt harder than other years, although I suppose if I take the very long view, the world has known worse. Nonetheless, I am feeling inclined towards resolutions, towards setting intentions to fill up the space offered by the clean slate of the Gregorian calendar’s new year.
Usually I don’t make resolutions because, all too often, by the middle of February I’m standing ankle-deep in unused gym memberships and unfinished lists of what I “should” be doing to become happier, more efficient, thinner, better at this or that. If (or when) I don’t follow through on resolutions, I end up feeling like a failure, precisely the opposite of my intention. But this year, spurred on in part by the still unbelievable fact of the Trump presidency, I’m thinking resolutions are in order.
Because my belly preceded the rest of me into 2017 – too much holiday pudding – my first thought was to work on reducing my own (increasingly rotund) silhouette, which is why January 2 found me in a yoga studio, sweating through a series of sun salutations. Never one to rush into anything, I worked up to that yoga class by spending the first day of the new year sprawled on the couch and indulging my most paranoid fantasies by binge-watching Mr Robot.
Now before anyone rushes to criticise me, I know that going to yoga class and chanting “ohm” with a group of strangers won’t alleviate anyone’s suffering. For that matter, I’m not even sure that “ohm” will soothe my sore lower back (that might be better served by a reduction in the size of my holiday-pudding belly). And yes, I do recognise how lucky I am to have the luxury of sitting in a yoga studio whenever I want to. One of my resolutions, in fact, is precisely that: to remind myself of my good fortune whenever I feel tempted to whine.
Be warned: I’m about to tell you about an insight I had during that yoga class, although it embarrasses me to be someone who finds inspiration in a yoga class. I mean, what’s next? Inspirational posters with pictures of wide-eyed kittens on them?
So there I was, in the almost-first-day-of-the-new-year class, trying to clear my mind and ignore the twinges and creaking of my middle-aged body as the teacher led us in a Sanskrit chant. The chant translates to a wish of sorts: “May all people be happy and free.” As mantras go, it’s a pretty simple statement – but a pretty tall order. We can’t ensure the happiness of others, and the geopolitics of 2016 make me cynical about the possibility of ensuring freedom. On the other hand, what choice do we have? Do we just retreat into holiday puddings and binge-watching TV shows? I tried that for a day, and all I got was indigestion and a sore back.
So my intention for 2017 is to stay off the couch, literally and metaphorically. I’m no General Organa, and I can’t carry a tune like George Michael or dance like Debbie Reynolds, but I can take the spirit of their example and find ways to spread brightness in the world.
Deborah Lindsay Williams is a professor of literature at NYU Abu Dhabi
