This is the day we celebrate the turning of the clock between two calendar years, an arbitrary marker meant to put the past behind us and look brightly toward the year that is to come.
I’ve never liked this holiday whose purpose seems only to remind us time is passing. Since I was a young girl I’ve watched the ball drop in New York City amidst a sea of revelers, and wondered what the fuss was all about. At best, it is a holiday of mixed messages: one that urges us to drink and be merry even as we already regret our holiday gluttony and have made a resolution to do better; one that asks us to be hopeful even as endless news feeds take stock of the right mess the world is in and predict what more grief is coming down the pike (oh, those ‘best of’ and ‘worst of’ lists!); even as the media’s image of glittery people at elegant New Year’s parties make 99% of us feel left out.
Do I sound bitter? I am not. I am getting older, if not wiser. I don’t need a holiday to tell me that. Crazier, too, perhaps. Freer, definitely, and happier. Grateful, above all else. So here’s my only resolution on this enigmatic day: I will spend the evening with my friends, feeling grateful for the grace that’s ever-present in my life. I will go to bed before the ball drops down and the fireworks go off. And I will wake up in the morning simply glad to be alive another day, and welcoming of the earth’s inevitable turn toward spring.