January as The Arbitrary Harbinger of the New Year

On the eve of 2025, I was asleep by 9:30 pm. New Year’s Day was just a Wednesday, a free day off from work. No resolutions were made; no strict goals were set; no pressure-packed intention setting occurred. There were no feelings of “new year, new me;” no energetic exclamations for a fresh start; no gearing up for a surge of newfound productivity. 

It was just a day, because – for a few years now – the concept of New Year’s taking place in the midst of the year’s darkest period has seemed fundamentally wrong to me.

Somewhere around 700 BCE, a Roman king by the name of Numa replaced March with January as the first month of the calendar year. This was to honor and represent the Roman god of beginnings, Janus. Fast-forward a few thousand years, and the United States along with several other countries still agree that January 1st is the prime time to make a fresh start, ramp up profits, and get to work. 

Enhanced by today’s capitalist mindset, we experience a raging explosion of urgent societal expectations hitting us from all directions right as that sparkly ball drops. After all, it’s the perfect opportunity to intertwine those resolutions with material consumption.

“Achieve your 2025 goals with this new product! And that one! And this one, too!”

Hidden Lessons of Hibernation

Pondering the origins of my deep unease surrounding New Year’s, I considered the wild.

Looking out the window on a January morning in Missouri, one sees a world devoid of commotion. The palette of this landscape is a blend of browns and grays. Crooked limbs on barren trees contrast with white-gray skies. The grasses and shrubs have allowed their shoots and stems to brown and relax toward the soil – no longer stretching tall toward the sun, no longer producing flowers.

The majority of birds have flown to warmer climes, and the sparse remainders are quiet, feathers erect to thicken the layer between skin and air. The insects, along with the frogs and turtles and snakes, have descended into deep waters and insulated soils. 

The bats have retreated to the caves, existing in a state of biological pause for months at a time. While hibernating, bats toe the line between life and death. The descent of their body temperature to match that of the cave (usually around 55 degrees Fahrenheit) is followed by a cessation or slowing of heart rate, breathing, metabolism, digestion, and mobility.

The mammals who do not hibernate – such as squirrels, raccoons, and deer – must save their energy and hunker down in a warm safe haven until spring arrives. 

All is quiet. 

To notice this natural dormancy is to notice the body’s deep, instinctual pull towards quiescence and rest. 

For millennia, humans have been guided by the seasonal shifts, the cycles of the moon, and the falling of waters from the skies.

Deep within our core is a recognition that now is a period of sparse sunlight, dominating darkness, meager food sources, and bitter winds. Our muscles yearn to save precious energy by slowing our movements, retreating into our warm shelters, and pausing. 

As exemplified by the trees and bats and turtles, dormancy equates to survival. We know this in our bones. And we know that to ignore these instincts is to disrupt the balance of nature within ourselves.

Myths and Traditions of Winter Dormancy

Though the United States insists on ignoring these instincts, many societies around the globe have oriented themselves around a calendar centered on seasonal shifts. My ancestry is Irish and Scottish in origin, and I have found myself navigating to Gaelic traditions more regularly as I age. Along with four cross-quarter festivals, there are four Gaelic festivals marking the rise of the seasons: Imbolc (spring), Beltane (summer), Lughnasadh (fall), and Samhain (winter). 

Samhain (of which our modern American derivative is Halloween) derives from rich Celtic mythology. Falling around October 31st each year, Samhain is the day when the Cailleach, Queen of Winter, strikes her staff upon the earth to bring forth the initial frost. 

The Cailleach is an ancient legend; she is often described as a veiled elder with wild hair, blue skin, and a warm shawl. She is a protector of animals, sculptor of mountains, and driver of biting winds. She is considered neither a good nor evil goddess; she imparts her wisdom on those who coexist peaceably with nature; she harshly punishes those who disrupt the balance. I have a deep, profound respect for this woman. 

The Cailleach Rears Her Head… in Modern Day

At the arrival of America’s New Year of 2025, I was wondering if Cailleach would ever arrive in Missouri. I spent my January 1st walking outdoors as the temperature approached fifty degrees. My jacket was becoming cumbersome. With only one substantial snowfall so far this season, I could see the effects of a milder winter on the landscape. Squirrels were romping around the still-green grass; birds were chittering happily in the bushes; a nibbling rabbit was spotted in a yard. The opossum who resides in my garage continued to make his nightly appearances. 

The concept of a “white Christmas” felt more prevalent in songs of yesteryear than modern reality. This, I realized with sudden disdain, is climate change in action. The wildlife are taking note, and I can’t blame them. 

My thoughts began to spiral: Will climate change make winters disappear? Without a period of dormancy forced by cold and snow, will there be nothing to halt grind culture? How will we survive?

Perhaps the Cailleach sensed my panic.

I am writing these words on January 5th, 2025, the day of Winter Storm Blair’s arrival in Missouri. The view outside my window is a stark, almost blinding white. I can barely see the barren trees as the whipping winds blow snow in all-encompassing sheets, blurring the entire landscape. 

Dormancy in wintertime is a direct act of resistance. 

Everything is paused. The snow blankets all. My entire community has been urged to seek shelter, pause activities, cancel plans, stay home from work, and avoid travel for the sake of survival.

Our muscles and bones collectively sigh in relief as we finally listen to their pleas.

This is not the time for New Year’s resolutions. Not yet.

If some part of you resonates with the idea of rest as an act of resistance, I recommend exploring Tricia Hersey’s work and her community installation The Nap Ministry. Performance artist, theologian, and writer, Tricia asks us to study the ways in which our ability to resist oppressive systems is dependent on our ability to rest, heal, and imagine. Tricia’s two books, Rest as Resistance: A Manifesto and We Will Rest!, serve as powerful calls to embark on a journey of understanding rest as both reparations and resistance.

Regardless of where you live, at its core, winter remains a powerful period of darkness. The days are short, the plants are at rest.

I encourage you to fully embrace the process of wintering. I encourage you to fight the urge to make lofty goals, consume, “go, go, go” and “do, do, do” this January. Whether there is a severe winter storm or not, listen to your animal instincts. Listen to the whispers of your bones, your muscles, and your cells.

It is time to slow down. It is time to rest until the songbirds return, the light grows, and the buds appear on the trees. That is when we will stand up, stretch, and do the work that our planet depends on. 

Until then, rest.

In doing so, you will not only resist the methodologies of our time, but secure your own flourishing.

Citations:

Tikkanen, Amy. “Why Does the New Year Start on January 1?” Encyclopædia Britannica. https://www.britannica.com/story/why-does-the-new-year-start-on-january-1.

Mcafee, Melonyce. “The Nap Bishop Is Spreading the Good Word: Rest.” The New York Times, October 13, 2022. https://www.nytimes.com/2022/10/13/well/live/nap-ministry-bishop-tricia-hersey.html.