The end is in the beginning. We begin to die the minute we’re born. That realization is understandably a little depressing, but it’s also just an obvious fact. Anything that reminds us of the passing of time and our own mortality — birthdays, new years or the death of someone we know — is also just a personal nudge to snatch meaning from whatever time we have been given. Luckily

New Year’s may just be an arbitrary day on the calendar, and most resolutions are doomed to fail, simply because we don’t just magically change who we are at the stroke of midnight,

I no longer feel all that obligated to celebrate and commemorate the arbitrary designation of the year’s end according to the Gregorian calendar. In fact, as I get older, I find myself much more interested in natural transitions like the changing of the seasons, the solstice, rejoicing when the days get longer, staring in celebration at the monthly sight of the glorious full moon.