A CLOUDY, dreary day, sick with a cold, yet I want to mark the day, the year, to settle old accounts and begin something anew. It is what I am always up to, and I see how foolish it is, and how necessary. I can no more draw a line between yesterday and today than I can continue without one. The weight of days is too great. The spirit needs release.

And so, a new year, a new longing — no, rather the oldest — to be different, to be better. I yearn for the end of attachment, and, with barely a pause, I am already dreaming of a more beautiful body, a more elegant mind, a self better able to receive, and give, love. I ignore the only wisdom of my years: that I need only accept myself. And I forget that time is but the one eternal moment in which we are created, and forgotten, in the timeless mind of God.