A new year has begun, as it would seem often to have done; I have spoken to it here, here, and here in this webspace. The Mrs., Ms. 8, and I were all abed long before the beginning of it at Sherwood Cottage; waiting for midnight has lost its allure, although I do recall some good transitions from year to year. (I recall some far less pleasant, as well.) My wife and I have had our fun, and Ms. 8 is as yet too young to recognize the holiday or value it. The neighborhood in which Sherwood Cottage stands is relatively empty with school not in session. Between the two, we were able to have a quiet evening spent reasonably peacefully. It was nice enough, if hardly the kind of thing valorized in public perception--but it has the great benefit of having prevented us from being hung over.
For me, the world has not much changed; I have to alter numbers on my blog posts and on the checks I sign (and, yes, I still write checks for a fair number of things; I like the existence of a physical record). Work still continues, with more freelancing waiting for my attention, as well as class prep and any number of other projects about which I have written on no small number of occasions before. The weather around Sherwood Cottage remains wintry (by area standards), with nights below freezing and days not much above it; the ground remains wet from the passing goliath, since there seems not to be enough warmth in the air to dry it. The lawn needs no attention, however, so some of the consequences of that problem are mitigated. Ms. 8 still does not get to play in her yard as much as she would like, though, and that is far less good. Unlike her father, she enjoys the outdoors, and I would give it her if I could. I would give her many things if I could. I cannot, though, which I do not think is a mark of pride.
To return to an earlier point--that I like the existence of a physical record--I am beginning a new volume of my journal today, having wrapped up the last one (after entirely too long) yesterday. It will be the thirtieth such volume since I began keeping a journal on something other than a legal pad in 2005. Just shy of three volumes a year is not an impressive rate of completion, I know, and there are gaps in each volume I have maintained that bespeak times either of substantial stress or indolence. Each time, I hope to do better; each time, I do not. I know such things about myself; it is part of why I do not make resolutions, as is traditional as one year becomes another. I know I will break them, and I am already often enough forsworn. I do not need to compound errors by repeating them; I can, at least, make new and different mistakes in the new year recently begun.