New Year's Eve is a time of letting go

Tonight we recognize a change in Seasons.

But I’ve always had a hard time with change. Case in point, when I was four, my parents bought a new boat house at our lake cabin. To make room for a new boat dock, the old building was moved from the space it had occupied for decades… about one hundred feet east. It sat there for years, presumably giving me time to grieve its loss. But I don’t remember. I only recall standing on the beach watching a chubby tugboat nudge the old building out of its home as I clutched my blankie and wept.

 In a family with five children somebody was always crying, so my sorrow was unremarkable.

But damn, I missed the old boat house! The new location made it impossible for us to get inside, and I missed the rattle of the door handle, the squeak of hinges. I missed the swallow nests stuffed with babies tucked high up into the rafters, the sunlight streaming through cobwebby windows, the smear of otter scat on the worn wooden decking. I missed sitting in there by myself watching the muted green lake water lap the underside of the dock. Honestly, I still miss the old boat house!

I continued to struggle with change as an adult—moving, new jobs, saying goodbye to friends. Not to mention the ultimate goodbyes—the death of loved ones, human and other.

I started a daily gratitude practice a few years ago during Gorge Happiness Month.

I kept it up, if somewhat irregularly, jotting down things and tossing them into a straw bee skep that was a gift from my mother. On New Year’s Eve, I paw through the pile and read through the highlights of the year. The bits of paper hold notes of gratitude for my husband, our creatures, my writing practice, extended family, dear friends, our health, special days, visits from loved ones, books, music, and everything outside—trees, rain, birds, rivers, trails, mountains, and the sea.

Now the hard part.

This evening we’ll build a fire and I’ll burn those slips of paper one by one. The skep will be empty. And I’ll feel, briefly, like that four-year-old on the beach bawling into my blankie for all that I’ve lost.

But I try to remember that the things I wrote down during 2023 are already memories, even the beauty of this evening’s fireworks over the Columbia River. I tell myself that this practice in letting go is preparation for the harder, final goodbyes. And I know just waking up tomorrow morning (which I sort of expect, though I suppose I shouldn’t count on it) will give me the first new thing to be grateful for.

Wishing everyone the best in letting go of what is past and making room for all that the new year has to offer you.