December is here. You know it is the twelfth and final month of the Gregorian
calendar—a month that marks the end of autumn and the start of winter. It is the month of winter solstice, which for those in the northern hemisphere and elsewhere translates into delayed dawn, premature sunset, short day, and long night. No wonder John Keats called it the “drear-nighted December.”

As the earth awakens each morning to the cold touch of icy winter to see herself covered in snow tinted with fresh-quilted tones of dawn, you feel like staying indoors all day long curled up on your snug bed under your cozy blanket, basking in the balminess of its warmth. But then duty calls, and you know you cannot afford to stay infinitely ensconced on your bed. You plunge wearily into the bittersweet cold day dragging your numbed body and clumsed spirit through the fog-dimmed light to pursue your dreary daily chore of chasing distant mirages.

But then, December is also a month that you associate with festivities and holidays and festoons and decorations. The month brings to your mind’s eye vibrant and cerulean images of tanzanite, turquoise, zircon, and lapis lazuli, the month’s birthstones; of holly, mistletoe, narcissus, and poinsettia, its traditional flowers; and of Winter Solstice, Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve, its festivals and celebrations.

December, you recollect, derives its name from the Latin word decem, meaning ten, as December happened to be the tenth month of the ancient Roman calendar. Decem again is believed to have derived from Decima, the middle goddess of the Parcae, or the Fates, the goddesses of destiny. While Nona spins the thread of life from her distaff onto her spindle, Decima measures the thread of life with her rod, and Morta cuts the thread of life and chooses the manner of a person’s death.

Of the three, Decima is revered as the goddess of childbirth. Thus, the longest and darkest night of winter solstice in December, you reason, is also a metaphor for rebirth and renewal that must follow death and despair. Decima is also considered the personification of the present. December then is also about the present—about the here and now.

The darkness of the winter solstice, you muse, is also a time for contemplation—to turn inward, to dive into the depths of the unknown, into the unconscious, in search of meaning, in quest of light.

December. You know it is that time of the year again—a time when you take a long walk down the memory lane, rewinding the year that was. As you traverse the trodden path, you take note of the milestones you crossed and the millstones that slowed your progress. You think of the opportunities that you grabbed with surprising alacrity and the ones that you squandered with annoying regularity.

You remember with a certain glow in your heart the wonderful moments that have left an indelible mark on your consciousness—moments that you know you would treasure forever. You feel the pangs of pain when you recall the saddest moments—moments that you barely managed to scrape through and lived to tell the tale.

You think of the heights that you touched and the lows that you hit. You pat yourself on your back for proving a point or two to the world and to yourself. You take a thoughtful look at those few missed opportunities that could have been translated into tales of success. You pause for a while and take a deep breath. Then, you fast-forward your thoughts to the present.

Back in the present, you recall the words of P B Shelley: “We look before and after, and pine for what is not.” You smile to yourself. You know that you looked before and after only to draw your lessons, strength, and inspiration.

You know that Oliver Goldsmith once wrote, “I love everything that’s old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine.” However, you would rather go with Alfred Tennyson now: “The old order changeth yielding place to new.” You also love everything that’s new: new friends, new times, new manners, new books, and, of course, New Year.

The newness of the year ahead conjures up images of untouched peaks and uncharted expanse. The freshness of the untried attracts you. You are also wary of its unfamiliarity, its vicissitudes. You want to take comfort in the familiarity of the old year. However, you find yourself dreaming about the singular surprises and pristine promises that the New Year may have in store.

You take a relook at the lessons of the past, the gift of the present, and the possibilities of the future. You make a list of promises to yourself. You call them your New Year’s resolutions.

You know that infinite are the horizons to the aspiring souls. You aspire to reach for the stars. You are not worried about reaching there. You know that it is the journey that matters. You perch yourself on the threshold of Time that divides years. You spread your wings. You take off. You soar. Nothing matters now.

R Venkatesan Iyengar
Consulting Editor