Wednesday, December 31: New Year's Eve

New Year's Eve--my least favorite day of the year. I dislike the energy of transition and ending, and the weight of the year ahead. It feels oppressive, heavy, and dark. Twenty years ago, just a couple of months before I moved to Barcelona, I wrote a poem called "New Year's Day, Planning to Leave New York," which I'll share here because it's NYE and melancholy is my default mood: 

New Year’s Day, Planning to Leave New York

At the curbs, trees cry needles,

stray tinsel glints winterly.

The vast expanse of year ahead

makes the air feel thin, jittery.

Nothing weighs it down,

no months yet mistake-scarred,

no days lived or endured. 

Too many what-ifs and might-bes,

too few should-haves, regrets,

give this city a false skin of optimism. 

We are better at rehashing than living.

My year stretches forward

like good ceramic tiles: 

pieces of change nudged together,

each beautiful alone,

more beautiful together.

Without you I’d skirt past these trees,

untangle tinsel from my heel,

grit through these first weightless days.

But now there is so much ahead.

Soon this city will grow smaller, further,

and—for now, and now only—disappear.

January 8, 2006

I'm glad to bring 2025 to a close. Late last night, when I went to say goodnight to Greta, she told me she had a weird bump by her ear--indeed, it was very weird and visible, and I lost a night of sleep over it. I got her in with the pediatrician first thing in the morning, and it is nothing to worry about--just a swollen lymph node an antibiotic will resolve. "I'm not concerned about this at all," the doctor said, which were exactly the words I needed to hear.

Meanwhile, Molly was with Luca at urgent care; Luca came away with a Flu A diagnosis. He had to sequester in the attic for the rest of the day.

It snowed today, and we had 13 people over for a NYE party (19 counting the four of us, Molly, and Jeremy). Molly and I planned a fun New Year's craft (sequin, bead, and pin "sparkle trees"), and we made lots of snacks. Lucia went to a friend's for a few hours then rejoined us later in the evening. Greta spent hours on a sparkle tree then got out the vision board materials, and five teens sat around with scissors and glue sticks and magazines to create their boards. We had fun and passed the evening among friends I've had for 30 years.

Our trip to Houston and my new medication mean 2026 will start with changes and pivots in my health journey. I've never picked a word to guide my year, but I think this year my word must be forward. One day at a time, moving forward with optimism and determination.

I'll be documenting that forward motion here. I set an intention to write on this blog daily in 2025, and I did it, and I'm carrying that intention into 2026.

I'll let the final words I share in 2025 be another New Year's poem, this one by Kate Baer. Lots of good things to come in the days, weeks, and months ahead. I'm ready for it.

New Year

by Kate Baer 

Look at it, cold and wet like a newborn 

calf. I want to tell it everything-how we 

struggled, how we tore out our hair and 

thumbed through rusted nails just to 

stand for its birth. I want to say: look how 

far we've come. Promise our resolutions.

But what does a baby care for oaths and pledges?

It only wants to live.