It begins with neither a bang nor a whimper, but only the rustling of the duvet, thrown off with the cranky realization that one must get up to begin the day, to get where one is going. It is, in spite of all the hype and nonsense, just another day in winter. It will snow, or the sun will shine, or there will be some gray in-between sky, and it will end with the too-soon darkness of the season.
The Christmas tree still stands in the morning light, turning sadder and sadder the further we get from its token holiday, but retaining some bit of sparkle, some freshness in the way the light strikes the bright green of the newer needles. A pot of paperwhites reaches to the light too, soon to deliver their distinctive scent to the room – for now just a few threads of verdant hope for a coming spring – even if it seems too far in the distance to begin to hope.
This is when the year really begins – not at the midnight toasts and champagne cheers, but rather in the stillness and silence of the morning. The break of the day – one day in the line of millions of days – that we imbue with the significance of starting over, even if every day affords us the same endless possibility
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