“I don’t really get it, what’s the point?” my nine-year-old asked as I was putting him to bed on the last night of 2020. For the first time ever, he’d wanted to stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve. We’d gotten out the snacks and the sparkling cider and, after playing Monopoly (Redneck edition!) for a couple of hours, we watched the ball drop in an eerily empty Times Square on TV. We counted down. We cheered. As we clinked glasses and wished each other a happy New Year, I tried yet again to muster up the smallest shred of excitement.
I couldn’t.
Now, my son wanted me to tell him what the point of it all was.
I’ve always loved New Year’s Eve celebrations - even during the last few years, when my husband and I began staying home with the kids rather than going to house parties or fancy Polish balls. And after the battering we’d all received from the year 2020, I thought I’d be especially overjoyed to bid it farewell.
New Year’s 2018
On the night of December 31, however, all I could think about was that ripping a page from the calendar would change absolutely nothing. The following week, it would be right back to the same old grind of remote learning and kids whining and the heaviness of winter. What was I supposed to be excited about welcoming?
Oh, sure - hope. I knew that. I kept telling myself that. But hope seemed too far off to help untangle the knot of despair currently tightening in my chest.
What I ended up telling my son was nothing of note. Every single word that came out of my mouth about celebrating new beginnings felt flat and untrue.
The next day, as I sat down to a breakfast of cinnamon waffles with blueberry sauce and mimosas, the knot in my chest seemed to loosen a little. I took my first bite and let it dissolve in my mouth. I gazed at the Christmas centerpiece on the kitchen table, with its pine cones and dried orange slices and evergreen branches. My cat jumped up onto the window seat and watched me. Sunlight dappled the kitchen wall. The knot inside me loosened even more.
There was just this moment.
My son’s question came back to me. What is the point of celebrating the New Year? I no longer thought that it’s only about new beginnings and setting resolutions and goals - we can do those things anytime, after all. Every single day can be a new beginning, if we put our mind to it.
Image by Olia Danilevich from Pexels
Is it about letting go of the old and hoping for something better, then? Well, we can always hope, of course, but as 2020 taught us (if we didn’t already know this), simply telling ourselves that this year is going to be our year, that it will be the best one yet, doesn’t necessarily translate to it being so. There is a whole host of circumstances we cannot foresee or prevent simply by the power of positive thinking.
As I was sitting there reveling in the simple joy of my breakfast, it suddenly came to me. This. It’s about this. We celebrate the New Year because we made it. We survived everything the old year threw our way. We are still here. We are stronger.
And I knew that no matter how the next twelve months were going to play out, there WOULD be moments of beauty, moments of joy.
Like the first sip of hot coffee in that sacred quiet before the rest of the house wakes up.
The winter sky in the late afternoon as I drive home, my breath catching in my throat when I see the horizon, mauve and periwinkle blue, over a valley of snow-covered trees.
Reading a book with my 5-year-old and bursting out into a deep belly laugh, the kind that goes all the way to your toes, when he points to a picture and asks, “Is that a frog’s dupa?”
Connecting with friends, new and old, and being embraced by the knowledge that I am not alone with all of this.
Going sledding with my kids - actually going down the giant hill on a sled by myself, shrieking all the way down like a child, feeling release for that one, glorious moment.
The late February thaw revealing the delicate yellow petals of last year’s pansies, still alive, still wet with the melting snow.
So much goodness.
The pandemic has changed many things. It has stripped me of whatever sense of control I still thought I had over anything but myself. It has stripped away layers of false beliefs, leaving me feeling exposed, raw.
But within its confines, I learn and grow.
Now, I am learning to lean into all those small bursts of joy with my entire being. To store them up.
And to take deep, deep breaths in between.
“The birds of hope are everywhere, listen to them sing.”
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
“In that calmness we begin to understand that peace is not the opposite of challenge and hardship. We understand that the presence of light is not a result of darkness ending. Peace is found not in the absence of challenge but in our own capacity to be with hardship without judgment, prejudice, and resistance.”
