The soft week
On seeing the old year out
In this soft week, the last of December, the days feel quiet—a weird tranquility has descended. Committed to rest, I’ve gravitated towards basking in a certain atmosphere that can only be conjured during this time of year, the cusp. I always seem to forget how much I enjoy this time, the unhurried days, universal permission to do nothing—to do everything—if you want.
The rules and hours are bent, they have deep pockets and secret corridors. I find myself burrowing into these magical angles, wanting to embrace the feeling this week possessed when I was twelve, before the omnipresence of internet and constant communication; it’s luxurious almost, this feeling of being hidden away, of making oneself unreachable.
Another luxury: Reading in rotation, from a list I curated for a string of days at my mom’s—a book I’ve been meaning to read (Dept. of Speculation), a book I’ve been reading slowly over the past month (Judith) and a book I’m revisiting (A Room of One’s Own).
There’s also something special about being away from your everyday surroundings; I’m always inspired to write while at my mother’s, and have just started a new fiction project. Instead of reaching for my phone, I’ve been wanting to immerse myself in this new writing (aiming to have a draft completed by my birthday in February), and finish the books I brought—days seems to be passing too fast and not at all, the early hours of darkness warping my perception of time. It’s been a week of house cat behaviour: grazing on leftovers, languid afternoons, wanting to be left alone.
As the year comes to an end, I think of May Sarton, an author whose work I’ve followed through the months and seasons—I bought Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaids Singing while visiting my father on the west coast this spring, and have read it on an airplane, park bench, my bed, by the river. I’ve read it slowly, sometimes opening it only for a paragraph. It is a book that glimmers, begs to be underlined. May Sarton is the author who most surprised me in 2024—or rather, I’m surprised by how much I’ve been charmed by her work. I started Journal of a Solitude on the first of September, and am matching my reading to the dates of her entries. She’s a writer whose words have a medicinal quality—they can be read in doses, and those doses provide a tonic to the reader.
From Sarton’s New Year Poem:
Let us step outside for a moment
As the sun breaks through clouds
And shines on wet new fallen snow,
And breathe the new air.
So much has died that had to die this year.
Rather than writing entries in my journal, lately I’ve been making point-form lists of details that stood out from the days. If I made a list of what I’ll remember most about this year, it would look like this:
The moment the already-dim sky darkened at the eclipse, how the emotion of it overwhelmed me for the rest of the day. Sweet peas from the roadside. Floating on my back with my eyes closed in Georgian Bay. Heatwave walks at 9pm in August. The terror of kayaking through an ocean storm; how fast the wind changed direction, the muscle of those waves. Laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. Waning crescent moon above the hydrangeas. Reading on the balcony. Soft rain. Calamari and pizza. The Northern Lights from the car window, driving home from Parry Sound. Spending time with loved ones. Every minute spent writing.
What I wrote in my message last New Year’s still rings true: I have always felt the clean divide of a new year beginning. Things feel promised and possible on the mantel of the unknown. The unknown—a great blank page.
I love this—“the cusp” feels right.
Oh I love your list description of the year. Beautiful.