Christmas break marks a period of unwinding and relaxation before life resumes at breakneck speed. It is also stained by loss. I pray for President Carter and his family, the victims of the New Orleans attack and the victims (both living and dead) of the California wildfires. The start of 2025 is marred by tragedy. In the words of President Josiah Bartlet from “The West Wing,” “The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels.”
Every New Year’s Eve, I have two traditions. First, I listen to an episode of John Green’s podcast, “The Anthropocene Reviewed.” It is about the famous song, “Auld Lang Syne.” The “Old Long Since” (or, Good Old Days) is a celebration of the previous year and hope for what will come. The song remains one of my favorites as 2024 was an eventful year: The end of life in a school to which I had grown accustomed, the end of high school and the end of some friendships while renewing others. I entered a new world. In what was the most adventurous year of my life to date, the song is a reminder to give myself grace and compassion. To “take a cup of kindness yet,” as the song’s lyrics implore.
My second tradition pairs with the podcast. I listen to the Irish Rovers’ cover of the song and think about my previous year. Sometimes, I journal. Other times, I reflect on the collection of small happenings whose only common trait is the calendar year. It is tricky to balance pride in success and a desire to improve failure. As the owner of what is normally a one-track mind, I lean into challenging myself for the future without appreciation for the present.
The fall semester was not long in a temporal sense, but it sure felt that way. The novelty contributed to a semester where “it felt like five years” (in the words of my friend). I felt extreme discomfort braving new life experiences paired with immense satisfaction in my day-to-day life. My fascination with that phenomenon inspires this column. It inspires me to seek novelty in the present, rather than surrender to the drudge of daily life.
After this journey, I have arrived at a new mountain. As I look up at the cliff face, it looks equally hazardous to the one I climbed last semester. It will not be an easy climb. However, I turn around and see the mountains that dot the landscape below me. Many of them once seemed tall and frightening. Analogies like this one (which I first heard in a talk by Robin Roberts) tend to break down quickly, especially if you ask if small challenges are mole hills and big ones are mountains. What defines a challenge? What makes it big or small? This variability means that the way anyone views their accomplishments will be distorted, and the salve of self-reflection is the only means by which we can create a somewhat objective view of where we came from and where we are going.
After finally figuring out 2024, I am back to square one. I can not say what will happen in my first spring semester or 2025. I refuse to speculate. As I enter my first calendar year of semi-independence, I will not wait for “the new” to arrive on my doorstep. Instead, I will “seek novelty.” I will climb the next mountain and seek out another.
Duncan Stangel is a first-year global affairs major at Notre Dame. Currently residing in Alumni Hall (the center of the universe), he hails from the small town of Cumberland, MD. When he's not saving kittens from trees, you can find him stumbling to Debart with a caffeine source in hand. Contact at dstangel@nd.edu.
