I’ve never been big on the whole New Year thing, probably because I’m a hopeless, jaded cynic. I understand the need people feel for a symbolic fresh start, and I understand the appeal of making a slew of resolutions. It’s kinda comforting, after all, to face January 1 armed with lofty goals and big ambitions.
Although I excel at devising long and elaborate self-improvement plans, especially those pertaining to health stuff, this tends to be a bit of a trap. There’s great satisfaction in setting intentions. There’s less short-term gratification, however, in the process necessary to follow through, and—for me, at least—the potential for disappointment and resignation is as real as it is risky.
And so I’ve made a practice of beginning to establish new routines in November and December. I do so gradually, giving myself the time and the space to experiment with, adjust, and solidify changes I’d like to carry with me into the new year. As I see it, life is a constant flow; it doesn’t start afresh, except in a metaphorical sense, on any given date, and it certainly doesn’t at midnight on New Year’s Eve. While I know better than most that there are turning points in everyone’s personal narrative, even these are interruptions rather than “begin agains.”
Regardless, I’d be amiss not to wish you a happy new year, so, Happy New Year! I hope that 2024 brings what you want it to, and I hope that you can be gentle with yourself if it doesn’t.
De Morbo Sacro: Life and/with Epilepsy 