Washed up again on the unknown shore of another January, another island year – the roar and crash of the holidays already receding, just so much stress and tinsel and fireworks.
The holidays are for children, it seems; so we try to force on the too-small clothes, the half-remembered habits of anticipation and wonder, the lust for lights and bells. But the year is old and we are too and it’s never quite successful.
Those holidays with most power to restore us to fresh senses are never marked on any calendar. They are microscopic. They drown between the hours and the half-hours. They lurk in quiet corners and take us unprepared.