Well, here we are. Every year November descends into December and January rises like a beacon of hope, shining light and hope into the future. We put on our party dresses. We clink glasses and make toasts. We set off fireworks and watch the ball drop.
Or we put on pajamas at 9 and hop into bed with a glass of wine and a bag of tortilla chips. We watch a movie--or we try to, until our eyes glass over at 10 and we turn off the lights and go to bed. Because this year has been good and it's been brutal and we are so, damn exhausted.
The latter was me, of course. And part of me feels guilty about it. Like I should have partied more, or partied at all as the case may be. I should have showed more reverence for this day, this new beginning that the world seems to be so hungry for.
"Did you make any new year's resolutions?" my sister asks me.
"No. I don't believe in them."
But this is not a judgement against those who do. My simple belief is that every day is a chance to begin again. I would be desperate if I had to wait an entire year to feel this permission--to change, to try new things, to experiment with my life. These are the things that drive me, that get me out of bed after a night of wine and chips. These are the things that support life inside me.
Every day a new year begins.