For me, this stretch between the old year and the new seems suspended in time. Snow blankets the ground and there's a chill wind blowing as twilight creeps on, heightening the comforting fires in the fireplaces, while violin and harp music wends its way into the corners where people read (or play with their iphones or ipods). It's rather like a dream. And as too often happens with such times, beauty and perfection intertwine with lesser things (rattling windows, nose blowing, and having eaten far too much for comfort). The prosaic masks the poignant and leaves us not quite awake to its wonders.
Perhaps all of life holds this tension: The majesty, the treasure of the present cloaked in the garb of the everyday. Lacking intentionality, we can pass through golden fairytale moments with only the faintest of recognition.