I don’t think I’ve ever liked the New Year. At least not the January 1 Gregorian one. It arrives ponderously, weighed down with all the expectations, anxiety, and guilt. The inexorable feeling that time marches on compressed into a single day.

So we clink glasses. Say things like “this year was full of things that challenged me but i’M s0 gRaTEfulL!!!” before waking up the next day knowing nothing’s changed but you should still probably make an IG reel.

I think that’s why I’ve come to like the Chinese “New Year’. What with the multi-day traditions, days heavy not with dreams still waiting fulfilment but with age-old tradition. Chockfull of symbols that dwarf the few that we see in the Western world. There’s an oldness to the newness knowing that even if this year wasn’t your year, your sign will come again in 12 years.

That we will be right here once more practicing the same greetings and eating the same things. There’s a certain paradoxical lightness to the weightiness of tradition and even though I didn’t grow up with a rich Chinese New Year experience in Saudi Arabia, I really do prefer it now.

Flowers bloom so shortly but at least we know they’ll bloom again.