Dates and number only mean something when related to human lives. Seasons like every other aspect of nature follows its own supra-human laws. So the turning of our calendars to the year 2010 is at face value not significant except as we give it meaning, as I give it meaning.
To the child that I was, New Year's Eve was more than the Chinese custom of scaring away devils with fire crackers attending midnight mass so that the bells ringing at the Gloria welcomed the new year in. We would walk home (because the jeepneys had all stopped running and taxis were a foreign novelty) to media noche—hot pan de sal, Chinese ham, Gouda cheese, Chinese pear, and Japanese apples. A grownup now no longer given to superstition traditions shorn of religious belief I try to put the pieces of Humpty Dumpy together again. After doing end-of-the-year chores last night I mixed five cups flour with sugar, milk, eggs and spices so I could have fresh-baked bread to celebrate a new year to try to re-create meaning where meaning has long ago flown away.
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