Happy New Year

A New Year Wish

Life is like a game
played slowly, wisely, beautifully
where every move is a chance
to dream a little deeper,
to laugh a little louder,
to wander wherever the heart still whispers go.

To win, we dream
and let the days carry us,
like leaves drifting on a friendly river,
trusting the bends,
trusting the current,
trusting ourselves.

We dream
and resist everything to the contrary
the doubts, the heaviness,
the voices that say “not now” or “not you.”
For every season of life
still holds a quiet spark,
waiting to rise.

So here’s to new beginnings
the kind that arrive gently,
like morning light through a winter window.

Here’s to old friends
steady hands, familiar smiles,
companions on the long, lovely road.

And here’s to the endless possibilities
that lie ahead,
still shimmering, still calling,
still ours.

Happy New Year
may it be bright, kind,
and filled with dreams that carry you forward.

Ringing in a Bright New Year

 Wrapping up our December journey with warmth, laughter, and a hopeful wish for the year ahead.

When I look back on the New Year’s Eves of my childhood, I can still feel the thrill of staying up almost late enough to be considered a grown-up. I must have been around eleven when my parents began heading out with friends to celebrate, leaving me, the eldest, in charge of my brothers. I wore my sudden authority like a badge of honour, though my brothers weren’t convinced of it. Our shared goal was noble: make it to midnight and ring in the new year like champions.

Of course, most years our eyelids gave up the fight long before the clock did. It wasn’t until I was about fourteen that we finally managed to stay awake all the way to the magic moment. And when that long-awaited stroke of midnight arrived, we made sure the universe knew it.

We grabbed pots, pans, and whatever wooden spoons we could wrestle from the kitchen drawers and stormed out into the cold night air, banging and clanging with all the enthusiasm of a marching band that had never practiced a day in its life. We lived on a ten-acre plot with the house smack in the middle. Our nearest neighbour was two miles away, which was probably for the best, we certainly would have woken them, their livestock, and their ancestors.

There’s something wonderfully pure about the noise children make to celebrate a new beginning. It’s never polite or restrained. It’s joyful chaos. It’s hope in audible form.

Years later, when my own children were about the same age, my wife and I repeated the ritual, this time with actual neighbours close enough to hear us. And hear us they did. But instead of phoning in noise complaints, they simply came out with their own pots and spoons, laughing and cheering right alongside us. There we were, families ringing in the new year under a cold starlit sky, our breath puffing out in clouds as our children created a percussive symphony that surely startled a few birds awake.

My favourite New Year’s memory, though, happened at a party when my nephew was about two. My wife’s grandfather, well into his late sixties disappeared upstairs just before midnight. We assumed he had gone to grab a snack or escape the noise for a moment, as wise men sometimes do. But when the clock struck twelve, down he came, grinning from ear to ear, carrying my nephew like a prize turkey.

My nephew wore a glittery “Happy New Year” hat that was far too large, slipping over his eyes. But the real show was the diaper he wore, the current year written across it in sparkly letters, paired with a ribbon wrapped around him that read, simply and dramatically, “GOODBYE.” A symbolic gesture? A family tradition? Or just Grandpa’s sense of humour? Hard to say. But it was unforgettable. My nephew yawned through the whole spectacle, blissfully unaware that he had just become the ceremonial New Year baby.

As the years went by and I inched my way toward retirement, my midnight stamina… did not. I found myself circling back to those childhood days when staying up late felt like climbing Everest. At some point, I quietly decided that ringing in the new year at 10 p.m. counted just fine. Midnight is a suggestion, not a requirement. And let me tell you, toasting with sparkling cider at 10:00 feels every bit as festive. maybe more so, given that I’m still awake enough to enjoy it.

Whether you ring in the new year with a roar or a whisper, at midnight or two hours early, with pots and pans or a gentle clink of glasses, the beauty of this night is that it belongs to everyone. It doesn’t require a fancy outfit (unless you’re a toddler in a labelled diaper), a lavish party, or perfectly timed fireworks. All it needs is a moment, any moment, when you pause and think:

Here we go. A fresh start. Another chance. Another chapter.

And perhaps, just perhaps, a quiet gratitude for having made it through the old year, with its ups, its downs, and its puzzle-pieces-that-did-not-quite-fit. We carry our memories, our lessons, and our joys into the next year like little lanterns lighting our path forward.

As this December series comes to an end, I want to thank you for walking through the season with me, from stories of quiet moments to reflections on family, pets, traditions, and the gentle joys that brighten our days. I have loved writing these posts as much as I hope you’ve enjoyed reading them.

So, no matter how you celebrate the new year,  whether with noise, with nostalgia, or with a sensible bedtime, I wish you warmth, health, humour, and the happy surprises that life still has waiting for you.

Happy New Year to you and your family—may it be bright, kind, and full of joy.

Carrying the Christmas Spirit Forward

 Let’s take the best of Christmas, the kindness, the laughter, the love, into the New Year.

By the time the last of the wrapping paper has been stuffed into the recycling bin and the final crumbs of shortbread have mysteriously disappeared (I maintain they evaporate, but others insist I am the culprit), many of us begin to wonder: How do I carry this lovely feeling forward? The season has a way of wrapping us in soft light, warm music, and familiar scents, pine needles, cinnamon, and maybe that one candle we only light in December because it smells like “holiday cheer” mixed with “something burnt.”

But once January arrives, the world can feel a little plainer. The radio stations switch back to regular programming, the stores take down the garlands, and we reluctantly pack away the ornaments, promising ourselves we’ll remember which string of lights didn’t work this year. (We never do.)

And so, the question gently nudges us: Can we keep the Christmas spirit alive after the season fades?

It’s a lovely question, easy to ask, but harder to live out in March when the snow is grey and our patience for humanity begins to match the colour. Some of us, in a fit of optimism, tuck this intention into a New Year’s resolution. But as many of us know, resolutions tend to have the lifespan of a fruitcake at a family potluck, politely admired, rarely revisited.

Before you feel guilty, let me assure you: carrying the spirit of Christmas into the new year does not require grand gestures, excessive time, or a credit card bill that makes the bank raise an eyebrow. In fact, the quiet magic of Christmas resides in the small things.

Think about the sweetness of a simple “hello” exchanged in a checkout line in December. People seem a little more relaxed, a little more patient, and even the teenager bagging groceries cracks a smile when someone wishes him a good holiday. There’s a softness in the air, an unspoken agreement that we are all trying our best.

That softness is what we can carry.

Imagine this: it’s a chilly morning in February. You’re walking into your local café; shoulders hunched against the wind. You catch the eye of a stranger fumbling with their hat, and without thinking, you offer a warm smile. Suddenly the air feels just a little less cold. That’s the Christmas spirit, disguised in a winter coat.

Or picture the first week of April, nature waking up, birds singing, your neighbour once again mowing the lawn far too early in the day. You decide to phone an old friend, not because it’s a special occasion, but just to say, “I was thinking of you.” You can practically hear their heart lift through the phone. That, too, is the spirit of Christmas.

Maybe you’re driving in July, windows down, enjoying the breeze, feeling almost summery enough to forget about December altogether. A driver signals to merge. You pause, wave them in, and resist the instinct to mutter about everyone else’s apparent inability to read traffic signs. Congratulations, you’ve just performed a mid-year Christmas miracle.

And what about kindness toward ourselves? The holiday season is full of encouragement to be generous to others, but by mid-January, we often return to our old habit of being unreasonably hard on ourselves. What if we carried forward the gentleness, we offer others in December? What if we allowed ourselves rest without guilt, joy without justification, and mistakes without self-scolding?

Christmas, at its heart, is a celebration of hope. It’s that feeling we get when lights twinkle in a dark room, when we hear a familiar carol, or when someone unexpectedly hands us a piece of shortbread and says, “Go on, you deserve it.”

The good news? We don’t have to leave that feeling in December.

We can carry it in the way we open a door for someone, or in the patience we offer when a clerk asks, for the third time, “Did you find everything you were looking for today?” (You did not, but you answer kindly anyway.)
We carry it when we take a moment to say hello to the neighbour we usually wave at from a distance, or when we sit down with a friend over coffee and truly listen.
We carry it when we choose connection instead of rushing, patience instead of irritation, laughter instead of complaint.

Holiday decorations may come down, but kindness never needs storing in a box. The spirit of Christmas is not a season, it’s a practice. A habit of seeing the world with softer eyes and choosing compassion over convenience.

So, as the year turns, let’s keep the Christmas spirit alive in small ways. Let’s make it part of our everyday rhythm, one greeting, one smile, one kind deed at a time.

Hope doesn’t require snowflakes or jingling bells. Sometimes it looks like a friendly voice on the phone, a shared laugh over coffee, or a moment of unexpected patience on the road.

Carry the love and the laughter with you. Carry the kindness.
Keep the spirit alive.

From Christmas to New Year

A December Baby’s Window of Wonder

I’ve always believed those of us born in late December belong to a special club,  one with equal parts glitter, wrapping paper, and mild confusion. For those who share this curious birthday window with me, I send my warmest wishes. We December babies know what it means to grow up with one foot in Christmas and the other in our own personal celebration, even if, in those early years, the line between the two was a little… negotiable.

I wasn’t a Christmas baby exactly, but close enough that my early birthdays came wrapped in the scent of pine, the sound of jingling bells, and the unspoken family debate: Do we give him a Christmas present, a birthday present… or try to pass one gift off as both? As a child, I didn’t know these conversations were happening behind the scenes. I just knew that times were tight, kindness was abundant, and somehow, I always had something to unwrap,  whether it was under the tree or beside my cake.

And truly, I never felt deprived. I was too busy living inside the magic of the season. The house smelled like cinnamon, oranges, and woodsmoke. My mother hummed as she cooked. Snow dusted the windowpanes like powdered sugar. The lights on the tree cast warm glows across the living room that made every evening feel like a storybook. When you’re small, you don’t judge the size of the gifts,  you just enjoy the moment.

By the time I was older, and our circumstances were brighter, suddenly I was receiving two gifts, one for Christmas and one for my birthday,  and I felt like royalty. I still remember the thrill of seeing both a Christmas stocking and a wrapped birthday box sitting proudly on the table. I thought, Well, this is it. I’ve made it. In hindsight, it might have been the first moment I understood the idea of abundance,  how it sometimes arrives slowly, like the gradual lengthening of days after the winter solstice.

And now, all these years later, I find myself reflecting on this curious stretch of days between December 25th and January 1st. This gentle, quiet pocket of time that feels like a soft landing after the sparkle, but before the countdown. It’s a doorway of sorts,  a week where we let ourselves breathe, digest both turkey and emotions, loosen our shoulders, and listen to the faint hum of our own thoughts again.

This is the time when the house is a little quieter. The wrapping paper has finally been corralled into the recycling bin. The cookies are still within reach (dangerously so). The television seems permanently tuned to some marathon of old holiday movies. The lights still twinkle,  not with urgency now, but with a kind of gentle afterglow.

There’s a coziness that settles in. A slow exhale.

It’s the perfect moment for reflection.

Not the heavy, resolution-driven reflection that demands lists, charts, and promises we know we’ll break by mid-January. But the softer kind,  the kind that allows us to remember the year as it was. To honour its joys, its challenges, its surprises, and its quiet moments of grace.

For seniors especially, this time between Christmas and New Year carries a different rhythm. We’ve lived enough life to understand that time is precious, but also generous. We know that gratitude isn’t something you buy,  it’s something you notice. And there is so much to notice in these days:
the warmth of a blanket,
the sweetness of an unexpected phone call,
the echo of children’s laughter still hanging in the air,
the scent of pine lingering a little longer than expected.

And yes, there’s humour too. The kind that bubbles up when we find the ornament we meant to hang still sitting in the hallway, or we discover the TV remote wrapped in a dish towel for reasons that made sense at the time. Or when we catch ourselves eating leftover stuffing at 9 a.m. and think, Well, it’s still the holidays…

These in-between days remind us that joy doesn’t need ceremony. Sometimes it’s just a quiet afternoon with a cup of tea that smells faintly of cloves. Sometimes it’s a memory that rises like a warm breeze from years past. Sometimes it’s the knowledge that we’ve made it through another year,  no small feat,  and still have room for gratitude.

Hope grows here, too. Hope for gentler days. Hope for laughter that comes easily. Hope for continued health, for connection, for purpose, for moments that surprise us with their sweetness.

For those of us who were born near Christmas, these days feel like a second holiday in their own right,  a personal festival of gratitude and new beginnings. But even for those who weren’t, the week between Christmas and New Year invites everyone into the same warm, reflective glow.

So as December winds down, let’s savour these gentle days. Let’s appreciate the quiet, the memories, the leftover shortbread, and the soft promise of a fresh year waiting patiently just beyond the horizon.

Between the sparkle and the countdown, we find ourselves.
And that, at any age, is a beautiful gift.