Bookends

Exactly one year ago today, I stepped off a bus in Chaing Mai, Thailand with frazzled hair and sleepy eyes-- thanks to a satisfactory night's sleep I did not expect to get on a bus (I even slept through my travel companion locking himself in the bus bathroom and subsequently breaking down the door...yes, I am sad I missed that, too.) I spent New Year's Eve pouring a wish into a paper lantern and letting it drift off into the night sky, sparkling with thousands of other wish-laden lanterns. It would be very poetic if I could remember what that wish was, but I can't. I can't remember what my heart most desired at the time, or if it came true or not. But I remember a thousand other little (and big) things from that vacation: riding on the backs of elephants the next day, making dear new friends, stuffing myself with sticky rice and papaya salad and fish, and trying my hand at speaking Thai. I remember moments from Taiwan in the months that would follow: teaching restless students, traveling with roommates, seaside scenery and mountain hikes, disagreements that ended in verbal sparring matches, tears that ended in laughter, and pensive nights overlooking our bustling suburb.

What is it about the beginning of a new year that makes us look back on how we began the year that is now ending? Is it nostalgia? Is it a certain craving for concise summary? Is it to measure how we've changed? There's no doubt New Years provides a universal milestone on which to remember, and two neat bookends with which to shelve our years. I'm grateful for that, for the ability to mark the passage of time, and for the brief pause of New Years during which I have motivation to delve into old journals, photographs, and memories. And I'm grateful that, generally, I like what I re-discover.

But the fact is that life doesn't fit neatly into calendar years, or months, or even weeks. Life has a way of setting it's own boundaries, of collecting its own bookends--and they rarely match up with a significant change in date.

This is where I could segue into preaching about New Year's resolutions and the discipline they require to see fruition. Where I could speak of day-to-day choices that promote change through out the whole year, and not just the month that the New Year calls home. But, I think we've all had enough failed resolutions to feel that lesson keenly enough.

My point is that fresh years are exciting, and a milestone to celebrate, and I'd be a fool to say that everyday in a year should be so exciting or full of expectation. But I do want to point out the arbitrary nature of the calendar date and the change in a year number. This marker of the passage of time has little to do with the events in our lives, or our country, except where deliberate. And it has very little to do with the nature of the earth or changes within it. It does not define how our next year will play out, nor does it define the events, emotions or achievements of the past year.

Last New Years proved quite the epic excursion, one that I'm not sure I'll be able to top anytime soon. But I know other days will top riding elephants and lighting floating lanterns, even if they do not occur on the milestone of New Year's Eve or New Year's Day. Beginnings and endings do not often respect hard deadlines, and events don't have to fall on memorable dates to be memorable (but it is awesome when they do.)  And, some years, I'm simply grateful for the un-exotic, familiar way in which I ring in the New Year.

There are some years that ask questions,

and there are some that answer.

In the spirit of New Year's resolutions, I've decided to try something new. For some time I've been internally analyzing the affect of social media and constant connectivity on my persona, my being, my outlook.  And I can't quite do that effectively without qualitatively measuring what my life is like sans social media.  I'll be honest here, though, I've become so accustomed to it I don't dare delete it from my life entirely--I like knowing what's going on with long lost friends, I like seeing pictures and articles and anecdotes from those who meant something to me at some point in my life, and those who still do. But I don't like the comparison it breeds, the attention it demands, or the deterioration of communication that too often accompanies excessive usage. So, I'm going to try life without Facebook for a while. A couple months will do at first--I'm not promising to delete it forever, and I'm not convinced I can; there are many credible arguments concerning the positivity of social media. But I'd like to remember more what it's like to hear someone's voice on a phone, to meet over a meal or cup of something warm, to lend emotion and body language and tones to passages of text. So give me a call, knock on my door, or even send me a personalized text message. Indulge me in reverting back to times before so much technology ruled our social spheres, even if we did grow up on the cusp of an electronic boom.