BEING AWAKE ON NEW YEAR'S EVE

New Year’s Eves bum me out. Big Time! For some reason, New year’s eve has always been one of those weird stand-out nights for me. I have historically been overwhelmed with the idea of something new. Doing something new, starting something new, becoming something new, and this particular holiday somehow seems to encapsulate, and by turns, exacerbates and exploits this sentiment. This infuriates me. In my twenties and early thirties, New Year’s eves generally sucked because I had this high expectation that such a night should be filled with a particular kind of revelry and an energizing spirit. What I remember are the ones of my youth. Traipsing around with my brother and friends, laughing at them laughing at themselves, and feeling on the outside of some wonderful story being written in the twilight. I was never really a part of things, just an observer. As a little sister, this was the extent of my involvement. And my brother, being the beautiful, tolerant soul that he is, abided my presence with kindness and patience that extended way beyond what any older brother should be obliged. Over the years as an adult, I made it my mission to find him on New Year’s eve and do exactly what I always did. Observe, be present, and watch that fascinating movie play out. For years, i did this. It was the only highlight of those wretched holidays for me. My dear brother. What would I have ever done without him and his companions, who were a constant source of hilarity, kindness and entertainment.

He and his friends played in a band, and somehow they managed the tradition of playing every New Year’s Eve. I drove from wherever I was living (even 13 hours once) to be present for that evening. In 1999, my first husband and I drove down to South Carolina to visit my family for Christmas and then back to Chapel Hill to visit his family. The agreement being that we would stay for NYE to see my brother’s band play, and I could at least honor that one little tradition that I had created for myself. Being the abusive jackass that my first husband was, he changed his mind at the last minute and tried to force me to go back to Asheville where we had recently moved. I wouldn’t go back. It was just one more night. He wouldn’t budge, so he drove me to my brother’s house, threw my shit in the yard and drove off. Happy fucking New Year, yeah?! Totally defeated, but still determined to not have the night ruined, I tried to have a beer and figure out how I would get back to Asheville the next day. My brother’s best friend’s girlfriend dolled me up in leather pants, a tube top and a shit load more make up than I’d ever worn and proceeded to pour liquor down my throat all night. I remember walking around at their show in a daze, feeling lost and bottled up and afraid, but glad to be with my brother. The next day, I got a hold of a friend who had been in chapel hill with her boyfriend at the time and they gave me a ride back. I remember driving back in the dusk, leaning against the window in the backseat of her white Honda Accord in total despair thinking, what the hell was even going back to? I would have to say that those 24 hours set up the tone for the whole next year.

But on the bright side, there was one New Year’s eve that I loved in it’s entirety. That night was glorious. Absolutely glorious. One of my dear friends had a party every year at his house. His house at the time was called Big Blue. It was magnificent two-story home with huge open spaces, hard wood floors and large sloping yard. EVERYONE, and I mean everyone, came to that party. The kitchen was cleared of all furniture, bands played all evening and into the night, the counters were strewn with half empty bottles, cigarette butts and humans dressed in all styles and flavors. It was a delicious spread. We all sang and laughed and lost ourselves in absurd abandon. Friends laughed and recapped the holidays, but mostly just laughed and told stories and fell all over each other all night with raucous joy. That one particular New Year’s, I recall also running around in the grass and ending up on the ground looking at the sky and singing really bad 80s songs for quite some time. I don’t even remember if it was cold or warm or what I was wearing. I just remember being blissfully happy, albeit maddeningly drunk. I also remember traipsing off into the dark with a friend of mine and spending the night with him, only to return to Big Blue the next morning to people sleeping all over the floors, on old mattresses down in the basement and every conceivable soft, horizontal space. The counters were lined haphazardly and in some places quite methodically with bottles of all colors, shapes and sizes. Ash trays piled high and overflowing and random detritus littering the floors. I made coffee, woke up my friend and proceeded to clean up. Several of us spent the better part of the day recovering, smoking cigarettes, making food and drinking coffee until we all felt the absolute lilt of the night before. And so it was. Glorious and wonderful. Friends, love and recovery. That is what a new year’s eve should be like.

Now that I’m in my 40’s, it all looks quite different. This evening was spent chasing children, mending a broken bed so the littlest one could sleep flat and not on a tilt, and feeling rather grumpy and exiled from the festivities afoot in the world. The problem with nights like this is that it’s just another night, but you can feel that the world is ablaze with laughter, music, drunken revelry and joy. Of course it’s not without it’s disgusting and revolting holiday moments out there, but generally speaking, one knows that on nights like this, there’s action happening, and for someone like me, who hates to miss the action and can barely stifle the general disdain of being cooped up when such events are transpiring, it is often mind bending. With a world of responsibility and things to be tended to that allay my capacity for just heading out into the darkness for celebration, I am stuck. At home. What’s worse, I myself know that in the end, there’s little to be missed and this holiday will be repeat itself yet again, and again, and again, if we’re lucky enough to make it another year.

So, this year, as I sit quietly on my bed writing this, I think about all those out there that I love. I wonder what they’re doing and if they’re happy, overjoyed, lost, grumpy, struggling, wishing, yearning, longing or hoping. If they’re celebrating and getting knackered with friends, or if they’re missing someone really deeply. I wonder if they’re out there safe and the evening is giving them loads of sweetness and kindness and reasons to be thankful to be alive for the turn of another year. And i wonder, how many of them might be sitting in their quiet houses with a wood stove going, freshly showered and awake feeling the blues like I do at this moment, but at the same time, so damn thankful that there is food in the fridge, there are loved ones out there that they cherish, good work to be had, children who are miraculous and precious and safe and sound in their own beds and another year of hope and joy ahead of them. After these past few years, I’m tired. My heart is often weary with the journey and struggle of what I hold every day, but as I sit here, I feel, with my whole being that there is an inexplicable grace in just being. Sitting in one’s own presence and feeling the past and imagining the future and setting an intention to be thankful for every little thing that crosses our paths and lifts us up and reminds us that kindness and love and generosity are really the most important things to aspire to. Without those things, we'd just be made-up drunks in leather pants with no ride home.