The turning of one year to the next has always been a time of quiet contemplation for me. Given a choice, I would always choose an intimate gathering over a party with a lot of people, most of them strangers.
Of all the New Years I’ve lived, only a relative few seem all that memorable. Way back, as a pre-teen, I recall a big house party with the excitement of all the preparations that entails. The moving of furniture, the choosing and purchasing of food and drink. So many people of all generations, relatives and friends mingling in our big old house. There were party hats and food and noisemakers and music and dancing and even a champagne cork exclaiming the significance of the evening by popping with such force, hitting one of my older sister’s boobs. Ouch!
Or that time at the Commodore Ballroom in Vancouver after the shout outs of Happy New Year and the kisses for those who had a special someone then, after the clock struck midnight, the excitement of being part of a huge conga line, ushering in the new millennium, 2000, with frenzied exuberance that had no intention of going quietly into that special night.
On Salt Spring at Fulford Hall and a terrific live band as one would expect with community members packed onto the dance floor. The volunteers busy in the kitchen or taking drink tickets as I watched with amusement (and a little bit of horror) as someone I know enjoyed happy sips from as many drinks as she could get her hands on, left on tables by those who were oblivious on the dance floor.
Being in that small church in the West End, where we’d walk the labyrinth as one does to mark transitions. And that one time when a man playing the didgeridoo off to the side, saw a father pushing his young son in a wheelchair and he’d instinctively walked over and pointed the sounds towards the place on the person’s body that he intuitively believed made sense – between the shoulders or the heart centre. Walking behind that father, I could feel the relief fall off him, maybe because somebody had felt his burden or felt his joy, or both, a part not apart.
The best of my new year’s memories such a long time ago now at Carol and Butch’s floating home on the Fraser River with my beloved in that packed little house. Towards the end of that evening, a belting out of the words of the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald as the tugs blew their horns, the sounds reverberating out and back from the shore, and his arms wrapped tightly around me. There is indeed something to be said for shared commemorating.
No matter how you like to acknowledge the passing of one year to the next, it’s always good to set intentions. Even if you’ve never lived on Salt Spring, meditated, done yoga and couldn’t bring yourself to say “ohm” without choking, at the end of this post is a really nice 20 minutes of relaxation.
You could choose to listen to it as a way to acknowledge the end of the last day of 2019 and your hopeful expectations for 2020.
Yes, it’s an artificial marking of time, but I think it is important to prepare with right intention for the blessings you hope to create as you mark the passing of one year to the next, and let go of all and any sorrow you really need to let go of knowing how short life is.
Why not take that time now and listen to this beautiful, calming 20 minutes?