Back when I was a kid, I loved the new year. It meant something very big to me; this trippy idea that, say, 1988 would never happen again; that something anew was beginning; that I was starting fresh and that hope was sparked and cool and funky and exciting and …
Now, however, as I sit here with 85 minutes remaining in 2013, I tend to feel … very little. The cynical adult in me views this as merely a number. Another day. If humanity has been around for 400,000 years, and I don’t accept Jesus Christ as my lord and savior, what does 2014 actually mean? Is it merely some human-created thing that means nothing? Is it garbage? Trash? Nada.
Maybe.
But—maybe not. Maybe it’s OK for humanity to create a day, if that day does something positive for us. Maybe it’s OK to want a refreshment; to see an imaginary line that starts everything over; that presses the reset button. Maybe it’s OK to say, “Last year I did X, X and X … but that’s over and done with. I’m committing myself to a different way of being.” Maybe it’s OK to take the new year literally—as a new year. A rebirth.
I can’t speak for others here, but 2013 was a mixed bag. Mostly good—wonderful wife and kids; awesome writing opportunities; great trips. But I know I can do better. I want to get better control of my health anxiety. I want to be more empathetic and charitable; I want to stop worrying about my Amazon ranking and start worrying about, well, less self-involved bullshit.
Perhaps, if I’m human enough, I can seize this new year and declare it my new year.
My New Year.
