The first second of the first day of the new year. The symbolism of the new beginning, full of potential, made of possibility. I'm not immune to it - last night, I chose to stay home, and made sure to be writing as the clock and the calendar rolled over. I wanted to begin as I meant to go on, to remind myself of who I am, and what I am capable of. I am a writer. I use symbolism to shore myself against ruin.
Still, for all I love the symbolism inherent in the fresh page on the calendar, I don't believe in making new year's resolutions. Not because I think I am already practically perfect in every way, but because I know I am not. I know that over the course of the year I will make mistakes, and stumble, I will hurt the people I love. I will be less than the person I want to be, and I don't want to wait until next January to fix that.
Today is a new beginning, full of possibility and potential. But tomorrow is as well, and there is a magic in that.
I spent New Years alone too, and it was lovely. I treated myself to a decadent sushi dinner, reading Octavia Butler. Then at home, at the stroke of midnight, I was reading a letter I'd found that my mother had written to her mother, about my birth--about how well she was eating in the hospital and how she'd "forgotten the ways of babies" (my next-oldest sibling is six years older), and it was a delight to rediscover them. It was a sweet night :)
ReplyDeleteThat does sound like a sweet night. And I love that bit about forgetting the ways of babies. Happy New Year, dear.
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