Labor Day always seems so much more like New Year's Day to me than January 1. For one thing, it signals an end: of summer; of carefree days living by the sun and the moon rather than the clock; of friendships forged simply because you happen to be in the same place at the same time; of long evenings spent outdoors. It is also a beginning, however: of new routines; new ventures; new experiences to be created. Even Mother Nature helps to foster a sense of change in September, turning warm days cooler and hazy skies bright blue in contrast to the unending cold and gray of December into January.
On Labor Day, my kids are instantly a whole year older. I can no longer say “she was a freshman,” or “she will be in the 7th grade.” After today, I must say “she is a sophomore," and "she is in the 7th grade.” My marriage, too, ages on Labor Day. “Seventeen years ago today,” I remind my husband across a dirty breakfast table spotted with milk stains, “the honeymoon was over.” And, of course, it was in September of 2001 that a new world-consciousness--a new way of seeing ourselves and the world--was so violently and irrevocably thrust upon us.
Come January 1, I will probably join in singing “Auld Lang Syne” and I will make my list of resolutions. But, for me, the year will be half over and I will already be looking ahead to the next Labor Day and to the new year ahead.
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