The first moments of my 2023 were pleasant: having stayed in from NYE festivities, my partner and I cracked open a window just before midnight, hoping to hear some evidence of the new year. And lo, we did: the booming horns of the ships in the harbor and at sea reached us, as did the echoes of fireworks beyond our view. We basked in the noise. A few minutes into the new year, some neighbors set off a complex chain of rockets on the road below, perfectly framed by the open window.
Nine hours later, I woke up with strep throat. Eight days later, I finally feel like I will be healthy soon. It’s been a rough start.
Starting things off “right” is always the goal: in a new job, new relationship, new home, we want to feel like the new thing bodes well for us. A new year feels especially high stakes for a number of reasons. There’s no escaping a year; we’re in it for the whole, well, year. We don’t choose to start a new year. We can’t place the new year transition at a convenient juncture among our other commitments; we can only shape our commitments around the immovable first of January. Everyone around us starts the new year at the same time. We’re all competing for good omens about the year ahead.
Here in Scotland, those good omens are secured by ritual. Your first visitor of the new year—the “first foot” to be welcomed across your threshold—should bring a gift, traditionally of symbolic goods like coal, coins, or whisky (but just as often a box of chocolates), into your home. First footing forces us to begin the year with selflessness and community.
The start of 2022 for me marked the end of a project that was somewhat the opposite of selflessness and community. I’d spent 2021 walking a map of my city, an activity that was often isolating and made me more familiar with buildings than people. It’s a project I’m incredibly proud of all the same, and it marks one of the only year-long commitments I’ve made that has lasted one calendar year.
I record a few things by common year—chiefly my underrated annual “best-of books” tweet—but I largely find the calendar year restrictive. January is dark and rainy in Scotland; it is not an inspiring time to launch new endeavors. And when the beginning of January goes completely wrong, as mine has this year, I’m not going to wait until the next January 1 comes around to put a new idea into action. I’ve had more success with July 23 and Labor Day Weekend as year markers than with cold, overcrowded January 1.
Here in the foyer of the new year, I don’t mind that I haven’t started off “right.” I have so much time ahead to be selfless and in community and experiencing good. I’ve added a 2023 sub-heading to the list of books I’ve read, but I have no other grand plans tied to a 365-day calendar. If I come up with something, though, I’ll be ready to start—on my time, not Pope Gregory XIII’s.
