1One of the many joys I have had in altering my midwinter (solstice through new year) traditions has been the shift in my attitude toward the New Year. In the past, I would oscillate wildly between (a.) adamantly insisting that resolutions were not only unhelpful but even harmful and (b.) making elaborate lists of all of the things that I wanted to change about myself and my circumstances with the turning of the New Year. Having no ritual around reflection encouraged a lot of avoidance for me, it turns out. Unhelpful! My alternate tendency to set myself up for failure in a shame-fueled spiral that usually had the emotional thrust of something like "this is a perfect roadmap for how I will be better" was retrospectively obviously damaging to my mental well-being.
In 2018, Jeanette Winterson's book Christmas Days: 12 Stories and 12 Feasts for 12 Days was released, and as a fan of her work, I picked it up as I explored divorcing myself from the Christmas traditions of my past and forging a new way. As a person raised in a particularly conservative church in the SBC associated with a lot of trauma (and who is now an atheist), It seemed a bit odd to be reading a book specifically about Christmas when trying to remove myself from the holiday. However, Winterson explored her complicated feelings surrounding religion in novels like Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit and her 2011 memoir Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal. And unsurprisingly (for me anyway), it did help. This time of year will always be touched with nostalgia and have trappings of the past stuck to it. Not all memories need to be put away forever, and not all traditions must be stripped away. That book helped me put together a midwinter holiday that is nearest to sacred as I am comfortable calling anything. Because I didn't want to center around Christmas specifically, I altered the twelve days of Christmas of my past and shifted to a twelve-day celebration from the Solstice through the New Year—my very first midwinter celebration.
In 2020, Katherine May released her now quite (deservedly) popular book, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times, and I was thrilled to find another person who had similarly approached this time of year. Her reflections in that book helped me to solidify my feelings around midwinter traditions, but more importantly, rest and "wintering" more broadly. With all of this in mind, I am writing today—December 31, 2023—to perhaps share something that someone finds useful as I approach the end of my midwinter celebrations and we all transition into another new year.
One of the things that has always been difficult for me about how we culturally discuss the New Year is that we often speak about it in sweeping terms. Especially with social media, I see so many posts discarding the past year flippantly and often with disdain—granted, the past several years have been difficult globally—and posts about the upcoming year filled with vague sentiments about the tenor of a whole 12-month period. I have never been able to comprehend long-term goals or future planning effectively—the details disappear out of my head almost as soon as I have spoken them into existence in favor of the immediate—the tactile experience of the here and now.
These discussions are not often very serious or impactful in people's lives, but they do not work for me, even in passing. For some, resolution or goal setting for the whole of a year might work perfectly, and to those, I raise my glass and send many good wishes! But with the intentional slowing down and rest of midwinter accompanied by the knowledge that routine will yet again resume come January 2nd, I want to mark my transition in the quietest and gentlest way possible, focusing on the feeling I want to have more of in the near future and sussing out the intentions that I could set to make that possible. I like to sit with the difficulties that arose over the past twelve months and acknowledge them but then actively create space for what I am proud of—the joys.
2023 was one of the more challenging years of my life in total. There has been so much grief, both in my personal life and in the world, and at times, I have truly struggled—at times, I did not know if I would survive. In the end, though, I am still here, looking back on the year, and I am thrilled to be able to keep moving forward. I continue to hope that external factors that have caused me stress will ease up. I am also beyond proud that I have been so resilient. I have put in so much work. Before this year, I wouldn't have even been able to say these words—I am proud of myself.
I didn't write as much as I wanted to; health issues prevented me from taking steps forward; the structure of life became disabling in new and frightening ways; I was not always living my truth; sometimes, I did not treat others the way that I want to; other times, I got lost in despair and was not able to sustain relationships. I also advocated for myself and my health; I have put so much work into trauma-informed therapy; I bought a company and then survived my first year despite all of my difficulties; I remembered what it felt like to engage with my joy; I have made space for myself and accepted myself to an extent to which I have never before been able. There has been so much grief, and there will be much more, but I feel powerful in my own agency for the first time.
I focus on the near future instead of the whole of 2024 not only because I can't conceptualize long-term goals very well but also because who knows what 2024 will bring? One of the only guarantees in life is surprises, it seems. I also don't want to throw 2023 in the bin and not think about it anymore; we have all accomplished a lot this year just by being here! I choose to reflect on this and acknowledge the uncomfortable things alongside celebrating the triumphant ones. I will be decluttering slowly, listening to my winter playlists2 that invoke the coziness that invites long thinks by a fire (or fireplace recording on YouTube). My Hobonichi planners for 2024 will find their way into the open, and I will write down the products of those reflections. Most importantly, I will continue to rest.
My sister began her own New Year's Eve intention setting last year. She simply selected a single word to embody what she hoped for her year. Last year, she chose the word "literary" because she had fallen away from her passion for reading and writing. I look forward to discussing what her word will be for this year. I have added this to my tradition, and my word for entering the new year is "connected." One of the byproducts of disability, chronic illness, mental illness, and difficult years broadly is isolation. In every respect, I want to be more connected—to friends, to the family I have built, to community. What word would you choose? I would love for you to share!
I hope all of us can find things we appreciate about ourselves and about our lives as we transition into 2024, whatever your traditions and however you celebrate or don't. All of you are so resilient and beautiful because you are people out there existing every day. How brave and fantastic and powerful you are! Happy New Year. 💜
The title of this post is an adaptation of the lyric, “And the summertime is falling down, and winter’s closing in” from Joni Mitchell’s song, “Urge for Going”
If you are interested in listening along, you can find one of my winter playlist on Apple Music
Amazing work! Looking forward to reading more of your work this year 💕
I adore this, Malorie! Thank you for sharing. I love your thoughts about mid-wintering and the deep rest we need during this time and extending the solstice celebration into a season.
I've seen the single-word embodiment exercise in a few different iterations this year and I'm intrigued to try it. And thank you for sharing your playlist! <3