Happy frickin New Year

So here it is, the dawn of a brave new cycle. 365 untarnished days, 365 blank pages on which to scribe a story of decision, triumph, and disappointment. Another chapter in so many lives already reading too long, or a glorious beginning to those yet to open the cover of the volume that will document their existence here. 2007, here we come.

Really, I suppose this should have bee written ten days ago, but in keeping with the hectic nature of my life over the past few months, I'm just getting to it now. So much for that resolution about putting things off.

New Years used to be a bittersweet time of year for me. Sure, it was exciting heading off in to the great wide unknown, but there were always memories of people, places, and events that I was loath to resign to the often-musty rooms of the past. What was so great about a new year anyway? Why was I celebrating something that more than likely would play itself out with the same vigor and emotion as the one preceding it; whether the results be positive or negative? For all I knew at the time, I may well have been celebrating a death of a loved one or some other life event that I could not possibly have forecast at that particular juncture. Yes, New Years had always felt awkward to me. Not good, not bad, just unsure. Here was everyone around me celebrating and having a great time, and for some reason I never could decide exactly how I should be feeling about all of it.

About six years ago I just stopped worrying about it. Stopped caring, really. It was New Years Eve, 1999. I had friends up from Lethbridge and we were all set and determined to party like it was our last night on earth. For all we knew, it could have been; the threat of the Y2K bug loomed large and we half expected, half hoped that the stroke of midnight would bring with it something truly catastrophic. We went out. We ate, we laughed, we sang along with Silverchair's "Anthem for the year 2000" at the top of our lungs. Expectations for the evening were high. Then, unimaginably, nothing happened. The dance yeilded no new prospects, there was no New Years kiss, and midnight came and went unceremoniously; like a theif in the dark. While we had been waiting anxiously on the proverbial front lawn to celebrate its arrival, the new millenium had snuck in through the back door, made itself some mac & cheese, and settled in to watch a hockey game. It was as though we had come back inside, tired of waiting, only to discover that the guest of honour was already there. The car was much quieter on the way back to my condo, where we discovered with some disappointment that the computer still worked just fine, the phone was still in service, and the TV still dazzled us with its cable-fed glory. The digital clock on the microwave hadn't even reset itself. The arrival of the year 2000 had been the most epic of letdowns.

We went to a party around 3 am, where we encountered much of the same. The girls were the same as they had been three hours earlier, the music the same; the mood the same. It could have been Halloween, or any other generic calendar holiday excuse to throw a party. It felt empty. I left that night feeling more tired than I had in along time.

By six a.m. we were all back at my condo falling uneasily into our first sleep of a new year, a new century, and a new millenium. I laid awake in my bed for about a half-hour, then rose, dressed, and retrieved my car keys from their resting place atop the microwave. There was something I had to see. I drove up on top of signal hill, just behind Canada Olympic Park, and parked the car facing east. Then, fighting off the persistent advances of fatigue, I waited.

1 January, 2000. 8:09 a.m.

Gradually it came. First the sky seemed to almost unknowingly lose its heaviness, the soft black-blue of the tired night fading to a deep ultramarine and finally to azure. The clouds, if they could be identified as such, hung immobile in ragged sheets; as if they had been there all along and were oblivious to the changing of the hours. The sky appeared to be torn in several places, bleeding colour as though it were a poorly-done watercolour painting. A sliver moon watched idly from above, not seeming to care that its careful watch had almost ended.
Finally, deep scarlet fingers reached skyward, changing the blues to reds, oranges, and pinks. The tired bulk of the sun eased its way slowly from the horizon, and the new millenium had begun at last.

Just as it had every morning for the twenty-five years I had previously spent on this earth, the sun came up just the same. After all the hype, all the worry, all the anticipation, and all the celebration, the morning came just the same. As I returned home and finally yeilded to the comforting numbness of a much-needed sleep, I came to the realization that regardless of its position on the calendar, New Years is just another day.

That was the last time I celebrated New Years with any real effort. The next year I would be in a car in northern Ontario, on my way to Montreal with my fiancée of two months. The year after that I would be married and watching movies with my new wife. 2003 was probably the most effort we put out; we drove to Banff with our six week-old first child and treated ourselves to the New Years Eve buffet at the Banff Springs hotel. We rang in the new year with a kiss on the frozen, moonlit shores of lake Minnewanka, and it was everything a new year should be. Beyond that, I can't even remember what I did on New Years for the past couple of years. This year I worked until 7 pm, then came home and played cards with my wife and my brother & sister.

I think it is folly to choose one day to celebrate an entire year. We should celebrate each day of each year as if it is our last, and live our lives in keeping with the same idea. I hope every day of 2007 is cause for celebration for each one of you; whoever you are. I wish you strength through your challenges, joy through your victories, and hope through your dark times.

And the sun rises.