There are many superstitions about starting a new year right.
You need to have a full glass of something at midnight (preferably champagne), to ensure you’re rich all next year. (according to both Romania and America)
You cannot be alone on New Year’s - it’s better to be surrounded by people, so as not to be always alone in the new year. (Romania)
You need to eat grapes at midnight, for the same reason. (Romania)
You need to open the front door wide open to let the old year out and let in the new year. (Ireland, I think)
You need to eat collard greens and black-eyed peas for health and riches. (in the American South. What if you grew up in a place where neither grows?!)
I never really paid too much attention to these, other than just acknowledging them as oddities or interesting facts. But after this year, I am now a convert that will look for any sign that will foretell a better year than the next.
The way I started this year (2022) and the way this year evolved and ended - I never want to repeat any of it any time soon!
We started the year in an Airbnb condo on an island in Georgia. We were alone on New Year’s Eve night, at midnight, and the remote for the TV was fried, so we could not even put CNN on to watch the NYC ball drop! We had no champagne, because we were sure that we could spend midnight at the bar of the condotel we were staying at. Only they kicked us out literally 15 minutes before 12 midnight. Who does this on New Year’s Eve night?!
The next day, we had reservations for brunch on the beach at the Echo restaurant in St. Simons Island, GA. When we got on the patio, which is right on the beach of the Atlantic ocean, there was no ocean: the beach was swallowed into the thickest fog I have ever seen. I lived on the beach in The South for close to a year, in all sorts of weather and I have not seen the fog so thick where you could not see the ocean. It was a still day, so you could not even hear the ocean. It was just as eerie as a Stephen King novel. If we started walking towards the ocean, we could have gone blindfolded because we could not have seen where it started and the sand ended.
I thought even then - “I wonder what this means, that the first thing I see on the first day of the year, for the first meal of the year is ... well, pretty much nothing?!” I was thinking this might be foretelling something ominous, some sort of a warning. And now, in hindsight, I know it did.
After breakfast, we went to visit the area and we took this longest walk through a cemetery. Talk about strange and eerie: why would anyone want to walk through a cemetery for their first walk of the year?! The truth is: we didn’t know it would end up being a cemetery: we wanted to see the Christ Episcopal Church, one of the oldest churches in Georgia. It just so happened that it was in the middle of a graveyard, draped in spooky Spanish moss, like a death bride.
In the evening, someone had tipped us off to go to this exclusive golf course resort and listen to a bagpiper play at dusk. It was the most beautiful scenery and the most beautiful spectacle, but I couldn't help but think that bagpipes always sound sad, they always are better played at funerals. Again, I thought for a minute that as beautiful and serene as that moment was, it was also deeply sad.
It was a rough year, personally and world-wide. Covid is still out there, hurting people, affecting our family multiple times this year. Some of my friends are caught in the Ukrainian war, and I fear for them every minute. Our collective health has been shaky and for some has gotten worse. Some dear friends have been affected by cruel diseases.
There has been a lot of loss this year, for us, for the world, and for those around us. A lot of unexpected death and loss of freedom, loss of values, loss of (more) friends. Painful, deep, unconsolable loss.
To top it all off, I lost my dad. My North Star. I am now getting ready to not only start a new year, but a new chapter in my life: it will be the “After-Dad Chapter”. How we do life without him is a mystery to me. This was the ultimate blow. The kick in the stomach.
Part of me wants to go back on that beach in Georgia and demand a do-over. But dad always hated quitters and always taught us to not live with regrets. We must march on. Somehow.
There were some silver linings at time: this was the year of wild horses, the year of being around family four times (unheard of in the past 25 years). The year we celebrated dad’s 70 years on this planet, when many people (and doctors) didn’t see him making it past 40. The year of Tori Amos and Brevard, NC. The year of walking the streets of Vienna with Aaron for the first time and of running into wild bears on the trails of The Appalachia in Georgia.
Like any year - it was good and bad. Some more bad than usual, but the beauty and hope are still there, even if just shyly, barely gurgling under the surface. Even if coy and unconvincing.
This new year’s eve night, I have champagne, I have grapes, and collards, and black-eyed peas. We will still be alone at home but, Duke Power permitting, we will be watching the ball drop with millions of others (we stocked up on batteries for the remote, too). And we will be with family on some sort of an online device.
And I hope that, God willing, I will restart a tradition that dad did with us, as children: to go to church on New Year’s Day. It’s so easy to do in Romania where all the churches are open around the clock every day, but so hard to do here. But this year, New Year’s Day is a Sunday, so I'm hoping this can happen. Maybe this will be the first baby step into starting to do life without dad. Maybe it is for a reason ... We cling on to all sorts of “things” when at a loss, blinded, and helpless. So, just maybe.
But whether I believe all of this or not, I pray for a better year for us all. A healthier, fuller, more meaningful year ahead, in all sorts of good ways.
Happy 2023, everyone!
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