The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1850)
On the 31st of December, long-held folkloric tradition dictates that the doors and windows must be opened at the last stroke of midnight, to usher out the old year and welcome in the new. I suspect it’s a truth universally acknowledged that we stand ready to bid a none-too-fond farewell to 2020.
I contracted Coronavirus in early March and have struggled with health complications and lingering symptoms, known now as ‘Long Covid’, ever since. 2020 was referred to by some as ‘The Great Pause’. For me and hundreds of thousands of others, it could be more aptly described as a grinding halt followed by absolute standstill; a feverish time of forgotten words, phantom recoveries and forgone opportunities. There were no boozy zooms or country walks, newly discovered and soon well-trod; no passions revived or talents honed. There were, for many months, four walls and silence, save for the sounds of distant sirens and a tiny view of a world, observed blearily through the screen of a phone, that looked very bleak indeed.
And yet. In this year of magical thinking, the choice to hold on was nevertheless a choice. It whispered of better days ahead; of spring sunshine, the simple joys of mundane chat, and a warm arm brushing against one’s own. New television series to binge, films to watch, worlds colliding in the pages of a book. Cold pints, hand-rolled cigarettes, busy trains, sweaty commutes, new cities, crowded dancefloors, and the voices of loved ones mingling with smoke in the nighttime air. Holding on was a celebration, too, of the sacrifice and selflessness embodied by those who strode out, head-on into an uncertain world: the cleaners, the shop workers, the NHS, the emergency services, the delivery drivers and taxi drivers and bus drivers. A determined turning of the tide in the US. A reminder of the good that prevailed in the world.
Reflecting on my own experiences in 2020, nothing more or less was achieved than simply staying the course. At the coming of midnight I will open the doors and breathe in the cold air as my ancestors did before me, giving thanks for the new year and ruminating on all that we leave behind in the old. Like so many, I will grieve for the lives lost; though I bid farewell to 2020, I suspect it will haunt me still. But we choose to persist; to lockdown and stay at home and to survive. To gladly await the dawn, however wearied our faces, upturned to the skies. To know that even though—even now—I feel at a standstill, I am choosing, and I am moving: on.