We were treated to fireworks for hours on New Year's Eve and again last night, right outside our front door, courtesy our neighbors, ringing in the new year in a splurge of loud bangs and whistles and booms. We didn't watch them; we sat in our living room and watched our shows with the kids, who NEVER once wondered what all the racket outside was.
I know that lots of people think the new year is a big deal, get excited about having a new number to remember to write, come up with big resolutions and plans, but I've never quite gotten that. See, for me the new year begins in the last weeks of August. I don't think of a year as going from January to December, but from August to May (with a nice three month break); it's the result of having been involved in education most my life and planning my calendar around my teaching schedules and the kids' school schedule. And I don't celebrate or come up with resolutions, but I'm not much of a celebrating kind of person. It takes my mother and her love of seasons and holidays to bring me out of that rut.
I like the rhythms, the cycles of time. I like order. I like repetition. And so I like the turning of the calendar year, the new months, time ticking by. I like my lists of things to do and checking them off. I take a deep, abiding pleasure in this, but I don't feel a need to celebrate, to deviate from the routines of our lives.
Routines and predictability are comforting. I'd make a resolution to be more impulsive, spontaneous, but I don't really want to, and it would defy the purpose of spontaneity. Besides, I have my various obsessions that come out of nowhere, whirl me around, and then die out as quickly as they blared in, leaving me looking around, wondering what the hell the three pairs of red boots are all about. Oh yeah. This month it's red. I need red things. A red coat. A red sweater. Red flip-flops. Red tennis shoes. Red mules. Red tops. Almost ordered red high heels yesterday before I reminded myself I don't wear heels. Ordered red pants before I could stop myself. Where the hell did the red obsession come from? See, that's spontaneity. Well, it would be if it weren't likely that next month will see me thinking I don't have enough green things...or some other thing that takes me completely by surprise. After all, I still have no idea why I love roosters and chickens, but I do. And sock monkeys. And cats. And skeletons. And all things sci fi. I'm a hopeless case.
I'd make a resolution to not obsess on things, but fat lot of good that would do. :)