The darkness we curse in December makes that month an appropriate ending for the old year, its joys, and, more to the point, its sorrows.
Our ancestors could have chosen any season as the transition from year to year, as both the Romans and the Babylonians did. For them, the new year began in the spring, when shoots sprang from the earth, and sheep and cattle gave birth. The Babylonians celebrated over several days but they also promised to return the things they borrowed and to repay their debts. The Romans saw the new year as a time for retiring magistrates to report their successes, to install new magistrates and to swear oaths of loyalty. When the Romans decided that Janus, the god that looks both forward and back, was a better role model for them than Mars the bellicose, they moved the change of the year to January.
Their pledges and oaths may sound a bit like our New Year’s resolutions, but there is no link between those ancient customs and our own, except for a willingness to improve ourselves.
I was surprised to learn that more people today make resolutions than our great-grandparents did a century ago. About 40 percent of us will resolve to improve ourselves physically, socially and/or spiritually as 2018 dawns, as opposed to the 25 percent of Victorians who pledged to make changes.
Unfortunately, according to almost everyone writing about New Year’s resolutions, less than 10 percent of those will actually result in improvements.
One reason offered is that little setbacks discourage people. The three days of rain that keep you from running. The month of dieting without weight loss. The short story you mailed to a contest that was returned due to insufficient postage. The lack of enthusiasm your kids show for a family night.
As destructive as those things can be to your morale, there might be other reasons why setbacks loom so large. At the risk of sounding like Goody Two-Shoes or Darla Hood or Nellie Forbush or any peppy heroine of long ago, maybe there is unfinished business that needs to be addressed before moving ahead.
Rather than leaping into the new year, maybe it is time to take advantage of the December that is. Regard the early dark as supportive of staying in the house and not as keeping you from going out. There is a reason you love the down comforter on your bed. Fluff your pillow, pretend you’re a bear and burrow. The secret is you’re a thinking bear and you are going within yourself.
At a point, perhaps circa 1972 or 1973, when my life was stuck in neutral, I decided — and this is the Goody Two-Shoes part — that the purpose of life was to discover what spark(s) of divine fire was (were) within and how brightly it (they) burned. Looking back, I realize that I neglected to figure out what my divine fire extinguisher was. That came later.
During the warm, snowless December of 2011, when the temperature hovered in the high 50s, a person who was dear to me died. I learned of his death two weeks later by Googling him. Within 0.70 of a second, his obituary preceded all references to him. I was stunned.
I thought how we sang “Spanish Boots of Spanish Leather” together and began a playlist. When the list reached nine songs, I listened to it. For the next two days, I played it over and over. When I saw my divine fire extinguisher, I dropped from my chair to the floor and cried. My own reticence, my inability to speak my mind, had made both of us unhappy.
Since then, I’ve felt more comfortable with facing my flaws. I make resolutions not because old Janus is looming on the horizon, his four eyes seeing everything, but because I feel inspired and what I resolve to do is something I desire, not something I think might be good for me.
As for the playlist, it now contains 29 songs. I listen to it once in a while, perhaps every third or fourth month. The songs no longer bring tears but comfort. I load the stove, snuggle under a shawl and listen.
Merry Christmas and happy New Year.
Susan Wozniak, of Easthampton, is a retired journalist and writing professor who writes a monthly column. She can be reached at opinion@gazettenet.com.