Every New Year’s eve seems like the brink of something momentous. As though we are suddenly standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon looking into a vast uncharted space where anything can happen. A second chance at things left behind in the old year. A significant mark on the graph of life.

I’ve celebrated this significant moment in many spectacular ways in years past commemorating  the glory that such a transition is in a way that matched the perceived momentousness of the event.

I’ve spent it on a revolving dance floor in front of the fog machine in Ybor City in Florida. I’ve watched glorious fireworks lighting up the night sky amongst hundreds of people in Las Vegas and Boston. I’ve brought back shiny stars and conical paper caps after parties in Calcutta.

And yet, this year was about a quiet walk by myself along the river towards a…