In a very few days, a few hours, the clocks will tick over one more time, the sun will cycle across the International Date Line, the ball will drop, and all around the Western world we will hear shouts and cries of, “Happy New Year!”.
And nothing will have changed.
Oh, we’ll all awaken a bit wearier, perhaps hung over, a few hours older. Those who still enjoy and use a paper calendar will take down the old publication and hang up the new, possibly admiring the photo on the edition they chose. But the major things, the important things, will be no different.
Our problems from the old year will still be awaiting us, unerased, staring back at us from the bleary face we see in the mirror. Within a few minutes, a few hours of that clock tick, someone, somewhere, will have been born—or died. Bills from the holiday season will sit quietly awaiting payment, mostly on slender funds. Children and pets and our elderly will require care, possibly needing trips to doctors and veterinarians at the most inconvenient of times. The furnace will break down, or the water pipes freeze. The same worthless politicians will sit in office, masquerading as world leaders. Vicious on-line comments will be posted behind the perceived safety of a veil of anonymity.
The clock ticking, the joyful shouts welcoming a new year, won’t really have changed anything at all.
Except, perhaps, for our perception of hope. Hope is the one real difference made by that clock tick that purports to indicate that something new has begun. The hope that this year will, truly, be different. That the good things, the lovely things, the beautiful things will, this year, outnumber the bad. That we will experience kindness and courtesy, not just from friends and family, but even strangers. That our world leaders will take a deep breath, stop keying in threats and nastiness and name-calling on social media, and at least pretend to be mature human beings. That a cure will be found for whatever devastating disease our loved ones are experiencing. That no one will be homeless, or lonely. That each of us will be given a fresh start, a second chance.
Hope is the only genuine difference of the new year–the one thing, ancient legend instructs us, left in Pandora’s box once all the evils invented by cruel gods had been unleashed upon humankind.
But in the original matriarchal myth of Pandora, before the shift in her legend created by the misogynistic writer Hesiod, her name meant not “all gifted”, but “all giving”. She was not created by those same cruel gods to be unbearably gifted and seductive, but was a goddess in her own right, born from the earth itself, who came to bestow upon humans all the things necessary to life.
And, being a goddess, she would have understood that nothing—not fire, not food, not water–nothing is more necessary to life, to the very desire to live, than hope. It is the very substance of the air we breathe, and just as necessary to our existence.
So, this year, when the clocks tick over, and those shouts of gladness ring in the airwaves, don’t be fooled that anything will have changed.
But never stop hoping that it will.