Starting a new year demands a whole new beginning - I thought

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

I used to be compulsive about New Year's Day. About all beginnings: beginnings of days, weeks, months. I figured if I could somehow make everything perfect on this one day, on this first day, then the rest of the days would obediently follow.

If I didn't get the light on the way to Dunkin' Donuts on a Sunday morning, and I did get a parking space, and the line was short and not long, and they had powdered lemon donuts honey-dipped sticks, then the week would be wonderful. If not, well…

Beginnings of months were even more critical. If a month started out on the wrong foot - someone was sick, or overslept, or the car wouldn't start or the oven broke - that was it. The entire month, no matter how short the donut line, would be a washout.

New Year's Day was ultra-critical. New Year's Day represented an entire year. Everything had to be perfect on New Year's morning: the kitchen clean, the dishwasher empty, all the Christmas stuff put away, everything neat, not a pine needle in sight, resolutions written and adhered to.

The day demanded a whole new beginning.

Oh, how I out-out-damn-spotted during those last days of December, cleaning in a frenzy, scrubbing, polishing, organizing cabinets and drawers, under some misguided notion that the fates would shine more kindly on the people in my home if the home were spic and span. Where did I get this notion? Why did I spend so many years of my life believing this stuff?

I remember spending the entire day, one Dec. 31, in my office, cleaning, sorting, arranging, putting my Time magazines in chronological order! I was determined that the new year would bring a new me.

Wrong again. Two weeks later I was my old disorganized self, with magazines and papers strewn all over the floor.

I can't remember when I gave up on beginnings. It's strange how you never remember when things end. For years and years every Sunday morning I drove to Dunkin' Donuts. I drove without kids and then with kids, in all seasons and all weather. Then one Sunday I didn't. Why? How come we don't eat donuts anymore? When did we switch to bagels? Who knows?

The good news is that I don't feel shackled by all these "have-to's" anymore. I don't get nuts if I get a red light on Sunday morning. So I get a red light. It doesn't mean that I will be stopped in all endeavors for an entire week. What mental growth time has wrought. What progress!

This year, I've so progressed that I didn't even attempt to prepare for the New Year. Though today is Day 3 of 1993, in my house it's still December 1992. I haven't taken down the Christmas tree, or delivered the remaining presents under the tree, or removed the creche from the mantel, or put away the Christmas music or taken the garland off the staircase. There are still pizzelle left in the cookie tin.

And I have to admit, I'm sort of glad. This still the Christmas season, after all. There 12 days of Christmas, not one. Why didn't I realize it before? Why was I always in such a rush to erase every speck of Christmas from my life before the new year? Why did it seem like this day had to be born free of the past?

I didn't make any resolutions this year, either. They're pointless. I always resolve the same things. To keep my office neat (impossible); to read a book a week (I never do. It took me months to finish "Truman"); to keep a journal (I always begin but never finish); to answer my mail promptly (within three months is more realistic); to Christmas shop all year long (it hasn't happened yet); to file things instead of piling them (I try); and to record the checks I write (I record some).

So there you have it. Not a beginning but a continuation of what was. Life is a journey, not a destination, after all. And journeys are meant to be enjoyed and savored.

And stretched out as long as possible