All year long, we treat time as invisible
and things as solid.
The chair holds me.
The wall stays put.
The day passes.
Time is just what carries the things.
Then midnight comes.
Nothing actually changes—and yet something unmistakably flips. For an instant, time steps forward and becomes the thing we can feel, while everything else loses its weight. The year doesn’t end so much as it thins. The objects around us—rooms, bodies, worries—soften, as if they were never quite as solid as we thought.
Time, usually the background, briefly becomes foreground.
We sense its is-ness.
It’s not dramatic. There’s no flash of light. Just a shared pause where the relentless stream seems to touch a still point. Past drains away. Future hasn’t arrived. Impermanence holds its breath.
Then—quietly—it starts again.
We call it a new year, but what’s really renewed is our relationship to time. We’re reminded, if only for a moment, that time isn’t just something happening to us. It’s something we’re standing in. Moving through. Being shaped by.
The restart isn’t about resolutions. It’s about orientation.
Time becomes visible.
Things become transparent.
And in that brief inversion, we remember how to begin again—
not by fixing the world,
but by stepping back into the flow with lighter hands.
Spiritual Gravity 