the turning of the year.

On the Reliability of Hope

Mensch tracht un Gott Lacht: man plans and God laughs.

Both my father and grandfather were fond of this saying which, translated, means: if you think you’re in control, you can forget about it. Best laid plans.

I am writing this while propped up in bed; my wife was down with a mild case of Covid just in time for Christmas, and we were astonished — amazed — that I didn’t get it. And I didn’t, until two days ago when I woke up feeling like someone was using my head as a snare drum. I keep testing negative (as I always have) and whatever this is has been enough to flatten me and keep my writing stamina going for maybe ten minutes at a clip before I need a nap that can last anywhere from thirty minutes to six hours.

As a rule, I don’t like writing year-end posts, or round-ups, or best-of lists. For one thing, I did it for years, in publishing. For another, there are so many of them that it’s easy to get lost in what amounts to little more than a morass of opinion and self-flagellation. This has been a hard year — they’re all hard, because life is hard — and a violent one. A friend of mine who is a well-known cultural critic tells me that in fact it’s not that much more violent; we’re just seeing it more — our exposure to it on social media has increased. I don’t know if this is true, but what I do know is that it seems like my family’s personal wheels came off the bus, less because of some Hand of Thor throwing us into harm’s way, and more because we’re so busy that we inevitably forget to take care of ourselves. This was the year that a lot of weird medical stuff came home to roost for both of us, and while 2022 threatened to push us over the edge, 2023 gave us the shove, and so now, in 2024, we will have to spend a lot of time and energy pulling — hauling — ourselves back.

There were certain things I wanted to accomplish in 2023; some of them, but not all, I succeeded at. I wanted to surf; Susan took me surfing on my birthday. My brain imagined my being like those fabulous healthy women-of-a-certain-age popping up on their boards without a hitch; my body, however did not get the message, and instead looked like a walrus in a bucket hat attempting to stand up on a surfboard. I wanted to cold plunge; I hate cold water. I wanted to lose thirty pounds; I am post-menopausal and built like my grandmother. I wanted to run a 5k; I developed gout in my right foot. I wanted to be well over the sobriety hump, but my friends of Bill W like to tell me that even the ones who have thirty years are a single glass of cheap plonk away from day one. That’s the other side of these end-of-year lists that nobody ever admits to: this stuff is hard. You don’t just wake up one morning after a lifetime of X and become Y. It doesn’t work that way. Change takes time, which is why so many people I know who accomplish it also tend to be circumspect: very few of us talk about the perils and pitfalls of getting there, as opposed to the glory and relief of being there.

Minutes before catching a wave,

But let’s look at the upside: I wanted to surf, and surf I did. I will never be one of those women who shows up in the Title Nine or Patagonia catalogs, and I’m fine with that.

This time last year, I wrote a New Years’ essay about authenticity — about being who we really are, and how the New Years’ Resolution Industry subtly preys on our inherent and human lack of self-esteem. We want to be better, healthier, wealthier; we want what others have; we want youth; we want time. I would not mind being healthier, or wealthier, or driving a car that didn’t have 137k miles on it. I’d rather not have the sagging chin(s). Mostly, though — more than anything — I’d like to be safe, and for the people I love to be safe. I’d like for children everywhere to be safe. I’d like to continue to look for and find beauty in such an increasingly hostile world that tells us we’re not enough, or that we’re living our lives wrong, or that we, empirically, are wrong.

Being down for the count over the last few days, I’ve had time to look through the various New Years’ Resolutions that people are posting far and wide. Most revolve around diet, health, mental health, and peace. Whether these things come to fruition or they don’t, there is a certain reliability to hope, and we are hard-wired for it as a species. And so I add to them my own hopes and wishes:

To keep good sentences in your ears (quoting Jane Kenyon). A 2001 conversation between Mary Oliver and poet/translator of Rumi, Coleman Barks.

To seek beauty wherever we go. A lovely film about photographer Cig Harvey and her work.

To seek out the intersection of art and humor: Fran Lebowitz at The MET

To remember that we were born to move our bodies. Okay maybe not to this degree, but one can dream.

I could go on and on, but I won’t. Instead, I’ll just plan for next year.

Wishing all of you a safe, peaceful New Year (and if surfing is on your list of goals. DO IT).