“The magic of the street is the mingling of the errand and the epiphany.” 

Rebecca Solnit

We live between the errand and the epiphany. Let me explain. We live between have to and get to, work and rest, what is and not yet. Experiencing real magic — the magic of the street — is understanding the liminal space where fear, joy, anger, awe, grief, and love occur. 

I think about Marie Howe’s poem “The Gate” when I think about the magic of the street. She talks about folding sheets, washing dishes, and eating a cheese and mustard sandwich, explaining her brother would ask if this is what she had been waiting for. “This sort of looking around.” The magic of the street is all about looking around. The magic of the street is about what happens when we are present folding or washing or eating — life’s errands. The magic of the street is about experiencing the holy chore, the sacred ritual, the prayer of the everyday. That’s magic.

Mary Oliver offers instructions for living a life, “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” She instructs us to seek the magic of the everyday. To disrupt our rhythm of noise and preoccupation and isolation. To ask more of our moments than sleepwalking and distraction and fear. To create connection with ourselves, others, and our natural world that explores the oneness of this one wild precious life.

According to Solnit, the magic of the street is the mingling of the errand and the epiphany. What is an epiphany? Buried in the word’s definition, after discussing the Wise Men bringing gifts to the baby Jesus, epiphany is an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure. Epiphany is wisdom visiting. Epiphany is awe-inspiring. Epiphany is mind-changing. Epiphany is invention and reinvention. There is magic there. It’s the magic of presence, attention, and intention. 

Resolutions — not just those that happen at the New Year — are a conversation between an errand and an epiphany. Let me explain. I look for magic. I know that I must open my eyes and heart to find magic. That is the soft and gentle guide that I seek. Resolutions are gentle guides. Resolutions are guideposts towards magic. There is magic in setting a goal and declaring an intention. There is magic in stating a heart’s desire to the Universe. There is magic in knowing the I am and living toward the not yet. 

Resolutions get a bad rap, especially when viewed through a competitive, punitive, mean-spirited lens. Thinking of resolutions more like magic makes sense to me. Why can’t resolutions be a mystical dance with the Universe in which we ask for what we want — a conspiratorial arrangement where we create the future together? Why can’t resolutions be a game where we sit in a circle and turn to the person next to us and whisper our resolution, and they turn to the person next to them and share it, and so on, and by the time your resolution returns it has become something more perfect and more beautiful than we could have ever imagined? Why can’t resolutions be a treasure hunt, where we find important things by following a grand map? My heart tells me epiphanies happen when we are joyful and playful and listen with our whole being.

I have written many times about what I learn through failure. [The Thousand Mile Club. 800 Tries On Winning When We Lose] Why bring up failure in the context of resolutions? I have always thought that, at the risk of sounding like a bumper sticker, the only real failure is not to try. I also believe that cynicism is a cop-out, and negativity is an excuse to stay out of the arena where shit gets done. It takes so much to make magic happen in our lives. Magic is the stuff of vulnerability and courage and strength. That is why, during this season when resolutions come and go, failure can be magical, too.

A writer’s journey is not for the faint of heart. (In fact, all journeys are a lot. That is just the nature of life.) Heading into this year — when my goals focus on writing more and connecting more, I am reminded of Elizabeth Gilbert’s thoughts on surrender. Maybe because resolutions — born of purpose and love, that yield magical epiphanies — ask us to surrender. In a conversation with Pico Ilyer, she reflects,

“And if there is one thing that I, if I had the chance to do it over again, could’ve done differently, would’ve been to walk into it in a stance of surrender — arms collapsed, no clipboard, no agenda, no cherished outcome — and to have almost gone limp into it, which is not the same thing as hopelessness, but it is a very powerful stance to take in the wake of something that is bigger than you are.”

All years feel bigger than we are. This year feels big. Resolving to move forward toward a writing life feels big. Surrender is a magical response to big. Surrender is magical in the way that vulnerability, truth, and clarity are magical. Openness allows magic to enter in. 

As the date (generally in early January) on the Christian calendar when the Wisemen greeted the baby Jesus with gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, epiphany is about gratitude. I am grateful for the magic of the street — the gift of every single day. I am grateful for errands that provide pause, ritual, and focus. I am grateful for big and small epiphanies. I am grateful for the mingling of errands and epiphanies that are the heartbeat of life.

I resolve to be awake to the magic of the street this year. I resolve to write and read more. I resolve to listen and connect more. I resolve to build and create more. I resolve to love more.   

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