Today is January 1, and I feel behind on the New Year Project. The assignment is two-fold: 1) share something you learned last year; 2) share something you hope for this year.
The turning of a new year makes the world turn inside out. Everyone is looking within, searching for something deep and introspective to say. I should feel at home in this turning. As both a nostalgic and perpetual idealist––and, of course, an aspiring writer––New Years should be my favorite. And yet, I feel overwhelmed by all the company.
My habitual practice is trending. And I’m loosing at my own game.
In attempts to get away from the noise––and come up with my own to contribute––I took a drive this afternoon. As I cruised through the familiar streets of my neighborhood, a soft grey rain pattered the windshield. The world seemed a little washed-out, perhaps deflated from last night’s festivities. Billy Joel’s “For the Longest Time” played on the radio:
Once I thought my innocence was gone Now I know that happiness goes on That's where you found me When you put your arms around me
I’ve heard this song countless times. And yet, something about it struck me. Once I thought my innocence was gone, taken by a global pandemic. Which rearranged everything. Now I know that happiness goes on. A new kind of happiness. One that mostly resembles gratitude.
In 2020, there was so much good and bad mixed together. There was so much lost and found. There was so much time to be productive, and so little to do. There was so much I wanted to do, and no one to do it with. There was no one, and there was everyone. There was everyone, loving me.
Today is January 1, and none of that is finished. I still carry all the hurt and joy of 2020 with me. So this is all I know: Years contain multitudes, this one especially. 2020 was not a lesson plan with main points and key take-aways. Let’s not recite all we’ve learned like perky, dutiful students. It’s too late for that.
That’s where you’ve found me.
(And as for hope for 2021, I think there is plenty of it already.)