Another New Year's Eve

  I’m listening to Barry Manilow’s “It’s Just Another New Year’s Eve” and looking out the window at the snow falling. He sings, “It’s just another New Year’s Eve. It’s just another Auld Lang Syne. But when we’re through this New Year you’ll see… We’ll be just fine.” I like the sentiments in this song.  We need to see and admit our mistakes, but also recognize our good fortune. It makes me think of all the good people in my life who have said, “It’s gonna be ok.” 

I will leave it to you to carefully reflect on the mistakes you made last year, especially the ones you can control. Be honest with yourself, but also give yourself a break. Be sure to distinguish between – as Hamlet said- “the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to” and the true errors you made. Life can be hard. Do your best.

Reflecting on all the good things is easier. I think of all the times my friends made me laugh. In a duck blind or talking about my dog. Or sitting around a campfire. I think about the hand on my shoulder just before I fall asleep or the sweet smile when I wake up. I hear the thickening voice of my daughter reading a poem she loves. I feel the crunch of snow under my boots as I hike through the woods. The excellent food. The perfect drink at the perfect moment. All those satisfying moments. If I put myself in the right setting and the right frame of mind, I can keep the darkness at bay and see the light. 

When I was younger, I used to roll my eyes at my dad and my older relatives who lectured me about the “real” world. As I got older, I came to understand why. There are some things in life you cannot understand until you experience them. You can only hope you have trusted adults around to help you cope. As this new year arrives, I hope you can find comfort in old friends and excitement in new adventures. Happy New Year. 

Burning the Old Year

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.   

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,   

lists of vegetables, partial poems.   

Orange swirling flame of days,   

so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,   

an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.   

I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,   

only the things I didn’t do   

crackle after the blazing dies.

…. Naomi Shihab Nye