Does it not strike you somewhat odd that we celebrate the new year in the midst of winter?

There is certainly no hint of new life offered by the natural cycle of events.

Snow. Cold. Clouds. All metaphors for death and dying and yet here we are with silly hats on our heads ready to party in another calendar change.

I can’t help but wonder if such foolishness is indicative of our frantic need to deny the reality of death. Even when it surrounds us, we do everything we can to ignore and reject it.

Perhaps there is value to all this frivolity. The laugh in the midst of darkness can be a source of courage and inspiration, I suppose, but more often, I suspect, it is just whistling in the dark.

I cannot ever remember attending a New Year’s Eve party. The sense of forced gaiety and desperation is not only repugnant but genuinely odd to me. What are we afraid of that we must engage in such frantic distractions?

I prefer the quiet of a chair by the fire, a conversation with someone I love, reflection on the past, whispered hopes for the future.

Perhaps this wintry new year’s time is to remind us of the importance of sitting quiet and still in imitation of Mother Earth. Taking time for contemplation, anticipating the coming, once again, of activity and growth seems a noble and natural exercise. It is a good preventative to hurried and often foolish actions.

With much of the fruit of the earth buried beneath wintry tombs, I am drawn to reflect on this year past, of things done and much left undone. I am cognizant of a shortening of the time remaining. I grieve what might have been even as I savor memories of what was.

"It was the best of times. It was the worst of times." the great Dickens wrote in accurate description of that year and this one. It is a call to reflection and analysis. An invitation to discern the value offered in these past twelve months, the lessons that should be learned.

Instead, too often, we race onward with not even a hint of where we are going or what we will do when we arrive.

In an ancient book, a singer once prayed, "So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom." Mindlessly racing away from our death, frantically searching for happiness, seems a strange and very foolish thing to do.

It is the nature of this deathly season that creates a kind of stirring deep within, a longing to do more with whatever time is left. I am grateful for this pause of winter dying that reminds me of how much I cherish life.

Happy New Year.

I hope you can hear me over all the racket.