Happy New Year! Again and again!
It's spring. Happy Nowruz. Begin again!
Daylight saving time is kind of funny and fascinating to me. Depending on where you are in the world, you either opt in or out of this rule. Sometimes, you can even vote on it. On a road trip through Arizona a few years ago, my friend and I watched the clock in our rental car glitch several times as we drove to Monument Valley. We learned that the Navajo Nation observes daylight saving time, but the rest of the state is always on Mountain Standard Time.
I’m reminded twice a year when we change our clocks, how time is a construct, a habit, a movable anchor. Our bodies sync to the celestial schedule of a spinning planet, its shape-shifting moon, and the inevitable pull of a star. In a recent read of Samantha Harvey’s Orbital, I encountered the 16 orbits around Earth that six astronauts on the International Space Station experience within a 24-hour period. While they all keep the same rhythms as their earthly counterparts—“there’s always, every day, an early morning”—they aren’t beholden to the one sunrise. They technically have 16 dawns, each a new day somewhere. Harvey describes a mundaneness to this “earth-stuck orbit,” as “bound for nowhere, their looping round and never out.” And yet, there is a spiritual beauty to this pattern, a ritual of witnessing and revisiting. Multi-pilgrimage at 75,000 mph. Maybe time in its best shape is not in hourglass granularity, but one of cyclical abundance.
With seasonal changes, I’m also reminded that time is cultural. Today is Nowruz—Persian New Year, which occurs on the spring equinox, Northern Hemisphere style. One of my best friends celebrates it, and every spring I return to the last memory of us eating a beautiful spread of dishes with her family and friends. I feel aligned with this idea of spring starting the year, when we gather and re-emerge alongside resilient first blooms. Celebrating Japanese Oshōgatsu on January 1st is my most favorite holiday, but getting hyped for the new year during deep winter is kind of tough? It’s energizing to look at other new year traditions within our remaining 364ish days.
Last month, I felt inspired by Lunar New Year with 2025 marking the Year of the Snake, an animal that represents transformation and wisdom. I drew a ‘heart snake’ and made a combo Lunar New Year/valentine card for friends (sent just in time to arrive after St. Patrick’s Day). Before this, I had never attempted drawing a snake that wasn’t just a cartoon squiggle. I looked at a bunch of zoo photos and watched molting videos. When shedding, snakes will slither through particularly rugged terrain and rough desert brush to pull at their skin, abandoning ghostly husks in their wake. It’s mesmerizing to witness outgrowth and its tangible evidence. This is another kind of new year, not a birthday—but those junctures when we intentionally let go to grow. I think it’s important to honor those shifts, the metaphorical sloughing of self. Often enough, it takes the rockiest path to reveal our slimy, shiny successor.
My friend calls the new year-inspired focus on goals, ‘rebirth energy.’ I like that concept. It’s not necessarily starting over, but allowing yourself the grace to begin again. The first page in a sketchbook? Intimidating. But a new leaf in one already full of ideas? Encouraging! If time can move by an hour twice a year, if astronauts can behold 16 sunrises in one day, then we can name a rebirth-day whenever we want. I know we don’t need a special occasion to give ourselves a fresh chance—but!—the celebratory reframe certainly helps me. So with that, I’m taking a moment for every new year this year.
I write this mostly for myself, as someone who writes almost every day, but hasn’t been able to hit the ‘Publish’ button for months despite working on many drafts. It’s ok to shed those too. Slither on.
Happy Nowruz! Happy spring. To the many candles on your rebirth-day cake.
OMG you are back!!! Yey!!!!
Okay, that snake drawing is SICK!