I’m Not Optimistic About 2025

The liminality of the days between December 25 and January 1, paired with an ice storm making it unsafe and unwise to venture out, keeps us home. Having consumed too much fat and sugar, we feel dim-witted and lazy. A jigsaw puzzle on the dining table, books on our devices, and a little Yorkie who loves to play fetch occupy our time.

I almost lose my mind on the fourth day of Christmas navigating airline schedules and prices that change depending on the day and time and whether you’re standing on one foot and winking your left eye at any particular time. The logic behind the price of airline tickets escapes me, well-seasoned as I am to flying. It takes all day—I kid you not—to commit to a series of flights and enter my credit card number to cinch the deal.

We graze on leftovers. I enjoy milky mugs of hot chocolate made with K-pods I got in my Christmas stocking. Two of the three of us nap; the other putters and ponders and chooses a word* to take with her into the coming year. One day we go for a drive in the Saskatchewan sunshine and I realize that one of the things I love about where we live is that we’re mere minutes away from prairie roads where it’s easy to feel like you’re the only one around for miles—and sometimes you are.

I scan the news, daring not to go too deep into the abyss of current events. A steady diet of too much news is an invitation to despair. Here in Canada, we hold our collective breath and wait for a shoe to drop. The rest of the world wrestles shadows and spectres of varying sizes and shapes. Wars and rumours of wars mock the peace we have sung about for the past few weeks. Dark forces work their subtle and not-so-subtle schemes with a slick mastery. What will become of us in 2025?

The year winds down, and the outlook looks bleak. It’s impossible to remain optimistic in light of one crisis after another, unrest the world over, and cultural shifts we couldn’t have predicted. Here in the shadowlands where we trudge through the last day of 2024, there is no shortage of darkness. I’m not optimistic that the new year will be much different.

But according to priest, professor, psychologist and prolific writer, Henri Nouwen, “Optimism and hope are radically different attitudes.”

“Optimism is the expectation that things-the weather, human relationships, the economy, the political situation, and so on-will get better.”

Whereas . . .

“Hope is willing to leave unanswered questions unanswered and unknown futures unknown.”

“Hope makes you see God’s guiding hand not only in the gentle and pleasant moments but also in the shadows of disappointment and darkness.”

“The person of hope lives in the moment with the knowledge and trust that all of life is in good hands.”

I’m putting my money on hope. I don’t know if catastrophic illness will influence the trajectory of my life or that of someone I love in the coming year. Or if someone will die. Or if a relationship will break down. Or, on a global scale, how natural disasters, wars, and political changes will affect us.

But I see hope in fragrant green basil leaves growing in my Aerogarden and in the sparkle of sunlight on snow banks. I feel it in the solitude and silence with which I begin each day. I caught a glimpse of it this past Sunday in the eyes of a woman I spoke to. There’s something of the divine in small, simple things that goes far beyond what I read in the news. A mystery I can’t explain. And love, the depth of which is wholly unfathomable to me, but that I trust with as much faith as I can muster on any given day.

Tomorrow we will wake on the first morning of a new year with the same concerns for our world and our families and ourselves. They won’t magically disappear overnight. A Pollyanna-ish world view isn’t the answer (though, I confess I’m prone to put one on from time to time) any more than a pair of rose-coloured glasses will make the carnage look any more attractive (and, yes, I’ll ‘fess up to owning a pair or two though they’re mostly cracked and broken now).

My choice isn’t between optimism and pessimism. It’s between hope and despair. In the land of I-don’t-know where anything can happen and worst-case is entirely possible, hope tells me to let go. Find my faith. Look past what’s in front of me and focus on that which I can’t see but that is just as real nonetheless. Hope is, to an extent, a choice; and at the same time, a gift.

Care to join me in cultivating a good measure of hope as we move forward into a new year?

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*I’ve chosen RELEASE as my word for 2025. Have you chosen one?