The New Year has always been an odd celebration, for me. I’m not much into resolutions or retrospectives, I’m allergic to the sulphites in champagne and my husband and I never developed a tradition of New Year’s parties, as he was a musician and usually had a gig, until we had kids and stayed home with them, instead.
For me, the new year begins either in September (the school year), or in early spring (with the first hints of green). I suppose that really begins now, as the days begin to grow longer. But I forget, in the depth of winter, what’s inevitably coming. So I’ve put a photo of sunlight-sparkling-on-dew-covered-leaves on my desktop, as relief from the winter whiteness, I’m looking forward to browsing a seed catalogue, pondering my order, and I’m thinking about new plants to try in the garden. I feed the birds, so I can listen to them sing. I’ll buy a pot of crocuses, with tips just emerging, and watch them grow. And I’ll buy fresh produce for salads, all to remind myself that spring will return.
Maureen
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