On January 1, we were floating somewhere in the Caribbean Sea, or possibly the Atlantic Ocean. My geography is terrible, but that’s not exactly the point. We were on vacation, so I decided to begin my resolutions “after vacation.” Then we drove home for basically two solid days, so I lived on gummy bears and other road trip fare and decided to wait until I got home to set goals and get started. Dylan’s birthday is the sixth, and we focused on that and getting the house back in order, then, then, then.
There’s always a then.
I know the first of the year is an arbitrary date and not a true clean slate. I can clean my slate whenever I want. I can set goals, begin new routines, buy a notebook that may just change the world, and I can do those things on whatever day I want, even in the middle of the day and not just at 4:45 a.m. when I wake up for my first workout of a new routine. Yet there’s something magical about those “new beginning” dates: the first of the year, my birthday, the beginning of the school year.
This one is slipping through my fingers.
I have’t done nothing. I’ve truly pondered what I want things to look like this year. I’ve made conscious decisions about where I need to hone focus and what things I might be able to let slide just a bit. I’ve journaled and planned ahead, and set some small-but-measurable goals. I’ve even met a few of them. (Hello, Water, nice to become reacquainted.) Still, I feel a little stuck in some sort of limbo. It doesn’t help that our mild winter suddenly decided to remember we’re in Michigan, resulting in two snow days right after our MLK Jr. break.
All of this is to say I’m basically overplanning myself into doing not much of anything at all. I see myself falling into a trap I set for myself all the time, which is the one where the stars must align for a “serious start” that will be the beginning of something beautiful.
The truth is, I’m already in the middle of something beautiful. Of course, that thing, my life, is also sometimes terrifying and sometimes overwhelming and sometimes hilarious and sometimes plain, old mundane. The key, if I’m being honest with myself — and I’m trying to be honest — is starting.
I used to think I had no problem starting things. I liked the shiny promise of a new story, a new planner, a new beginning. The starting felt fun and adrenaline-filled and like something I could unwrap with pride. So many of those starts petered out. Those stalls, stops, implosions, whatever you might want to call them, all lurk in the back of my head. It’s scary. No, I’m scared, literally, to start again when I might not be able to bring yet another fresh start to fruition.
So instead I’ve been planning and using big markers instead of fine tipped pens, and I’ve been tip-toeing around writing or blogging or sending out a newsletter or any of those other things I said I’d do in the new year.
Today, I decided to just show up. Just sit down. Just write. Just press “post” even though it’s not perfect and not what I planned and doesn’t have nearly any of the polish or any of the answers or any of the milestones I hoped to have by the middle of the month.
Show up. Sit down. Write.
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