I LOVE new stuff.
New years. New Nike’s. New adventures. New ideas.
Often to an unhealthy degree, I could talk myself into (rather quickly) just about anything new.
The shine and sparkle of a new thing or experience is crammed with promise, and yet, most of the time fails to deliver for long before I move to the next new thing.
Understandably, January 1 for many of us feels like a clean slate, a new start, a chance to erase the heartache and confusion from the past 365, and move into adventure-land with whatever hopes and plans may come.
New diets. New budgets. New journals. New habits. New businesses. New attempts to restore the relationships that have been lost or broken. New pinky swears that this time it really will be different.
I have a pile of those not new anymore journals in the ugly corner of my closet. Maybe I’m the only one.
As badly as I want to believe that 2022 will unlock the mysteries of the universe and fulfill my every desire, the last 40 NYE’s in my life prove that maybe a new year is nothing new after all.
January 1, 2022 doesn’t have a magic elixir that May 14, 2021 didn’t have. Or September 23, 1994.
I’ll be right there with y’all in toasts, cheers, and singing, as Macklemore says, “next year’s gonna be better than this year…” when the ball drops in a couple hours.
But, I’m starting to believe nothing will be new tomorrow that isn’t new every day when the sun rips through the darkness and provides a peek into what’s possible if we choose to believe it.
And perhaps, it’s up to us, not the calendar, to determine if we’re going to create, lead, move, go, dance, dream, write, sing, start, forgive, pursue, quit, breathe, eat, sleep, pray, and be tomorrow, next week, and the next new year after this one.
Happy Nothing is New Year. We got this.
