The new year has arrived and my slate is clean. I’m good as gold. After being up for an hour or two with some strong brew under my belt, hope still abounds, promise peeks through the window, and discovery is available on demand. I must confess some friends don’t share my sentiment, seeing the date as just that and eschewing the holiday as merely an excuse to plant sloppy kisses on attractive strangers (I have no idea what they’re talking about.) while testing the boundaries of decorum. (Again, I have no idea of what they speak.)
For me, New Year’s Day is one big, wonderful metaphor
- It’s new-fallen snow, unmarred by footprint, twig or ash.
- It’s clean sheets, and sun-dried laundry.
- It’s a countertop full of homegrown goodness ready to be baked into a pie.
- It’s a lily bulb that in hand is dry and seemingly dead, but once planted erupts in petals and perfume.
- It’s walk down a path that unveils little secrets along the way, should you have the eyes or desire to see them.
I could go on, but I fear my list is turning into a Rodgers and Hammerstein score (i.e., raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens). Perhaps my point is the new year is less about the date and more about the person. The hope, promise and discovery I see today will always be there. It is my role to embrace them and make them a part of my day everyday.
Now if you’re suffering from renal failure due to the saccharin sweetness of the my Pollyanna post, I get it. Two days from now I will resume my one-and-half-hour round-trip commute in the dark, and become a prisoner to tasks and takers, but for now, two bulldogs snore by me on the sofa, the coffee is strong, a fire crackles and a blackberry pie browns and bubbles nicely in the oven. So for today, I wish you all Happy New Year. May we keep its magic alive as long as we can.