January Musings

New year, new you…they say. The first of the year brings a dawn of new beginnings and unwritten pages, and, for a moment, we all are pure…I hear. Like the season’s first silent fall of a fresh blanket of snow. Like opening a new journal and having crisp, clean, blank white staring back at you. Like being the first to set your skates on the ice or your skis in the snow…the world is yours for the taking…I envision. A lover of the small stuff, the moments, the enchanted whispers of life…I love these sacred seconds. Certainly.

With each passing year, however, more and more in my rear view mirror, it becomes increasingly clear to me that less of life is so pure, so untouched, so pristine, so uncomplicated. I think that’s why I appreciate those splendid fleeting pockets of magic. The untouched canvas holds infinite possibilities for the artist holding the brush, but so too is there great beauty in the midst of the flying strokes, “perfect” composition or color or structure…or not. I think that’s how it is in life. For many of us, much life has been lived, much sadness has been ached, much joy has been delighted in. And the Years. Tick. By. Big games have come and gone, shoes that were once favorites have been replaced, shampoo bottles have been used as directed, its contents lathered, rinsed, repeated then discarded, and the loads of laundry just, keep, trucking. The body I’ve been given keeps trucking along as well, thankfully, and laugh lines are comfortably cozy around my eyes, my hair is slowly marching toward gray and my waist is shrinking or expanding depending on the week or the season. My back tweaks and spasms off and on and my chiropractor’s office number is permanently entered into my phone. Everyone I know now seems to have a bad shoulder or knee and we are trading our many practitioners’ digits with one another like baseball cards. Our minds have read and analyzed and remembered (and forgotten) hoards and hoards and hoards of information. Our hearts have loved and lost and hurt and soared. Our feet have touched the ground of a million corners of the earth, tapping under our desks in class, climbing mountains, dancing in bars, waiting in subways, running on beaches, sliding into a cozy pair of slippers. Our eyes have lit up at the sight of natural beauties and disasters, exploring a new city, a flood in your basement, reuniting with an old friend, catching the gaze of our beloved. And for all of this, I am thankful.

Annually, usually, I’m one of the masses on January One, armloads of genuine, albeit often unrealized, intentions for ways to improve myself or issues to fix or habits to drop. I’m back to the gym with a vengeance, I’m trying to use my phone as a telephone for talking and not just texting (something I am admittedly, perpetually, not so good at), I’m saying no to my it’s-been-a(nother)-long-day reward glass of wine on a Tuesday night, and digging deep into my life, my marriage, my relationships; miners helmet on, ready to fix, repair, change, restart.

And all of that is so healthy.

For some reason this year, I find myself actually looking to brush all that stuff to the side, though, to just stop for a second to really see me. Who I am, this day, this year, this era of my life. Wiping away the good intentions, removing my rose-colored glasses and taking a real, honest, under-the-dreaded-dressing-room-light look at myself. Taking it all in. The squinchy, scarred, unsavory parts included. Celebrating the shiny bits too. But exploring for exploring’s sake…. Sort of like if I had the opportunity to audit the Modern European History class I took in college, and learning about all the craziness that went on during the Renaissance and the Reformation and all the dang Revolutions, without the stress of having to memorize all the dates and names and social impacts for the test. Just listening and reading and absorbing.

I feel like the girl staring back at me in the mirror is different. I am entering a new chapter with better-rested eyes, without maternity clothes, and no. nursing. bras. The last year scattered many new tiny milestones around every corner: more often using the single stroller instead of the double, no more daytime diapers, all four children registered for school in the fall (with three of them in the same elementary school…!!…leaving only one in preschool…!!!). I want to start running again. I would love to row once more like I did in college. Can. I. Read. A. Book. Again. Please. There are ample avenues by which to give more back to our community, and I was given the chance to dip my toe into that world over Christmas and it felt. So. Good. I want to love my house in all it’s intermittently messy minutes and appreciate the salt from the winter sidewalk being ground into my freshly swept floors (insert: face palm) because it means I am the part-owner of eight tiny feet that fly in and out of our doors at any given moment. I want to be the plan-maker instead of the plan-desirer-but-forgot-to-lock-it-down-er. I’ve long desired to learn how to can and preserve, work on my pie game, sew and pick up knitting again. Engaging with the world beyond my driveway and impacting people’s lives is something I miss also. I want to simultaneously touch my phone less during each day to be freer to tune in more to each present moment with my family…but also be a more text-responsive friend and family member. Tips on that one welcomed.

I guess I am just feeling more gentle with myself for not beginning my restart button on January 1st this year, and in so doing, wondering why we beat ourselves up for not sticking to the plan, or being first in line. The reality is that we all are new, every morning, every minute, every moment. All we have are opportunities before us. Every second is an invitation to go, see, do. To text that friend who is on your mind. Get on the floor and play superheroes or babies or battleship or rug hockey with your kids. Call your mom. Revisit your favorite hobby. Put the phone down. Turn off all those pesky notifications. Get that date on the calendar. Try that involved recipe. It doesn’t have to be particularly perfect or punctual or perky. In fact, it’s often better when it’s not. You’ll have a story to tell about your failed soggy soufflé or you’ll have a night in the books to look forward to with a friend. And let’s be honest. You’ll never even know what the masterpiece of your life looks like unless you step back once in a while. Wash off your brush. Re-evaluate the plan. Stay the course. Change directions. Pick a new color. Being busy up close to dig in with the details is sometimes necessary to elevate your life’s work from good to great, but you also have to see the big picture to ponder if all that’s before you is anything that you’re hoping it is.

I believe in the chance to renew and revitalize oneself…but there’s something to be said for picking your old saggy butt up from whatever tough spot you’re in and dusting yourself off and restarting, no matter what day of the year it is. Just as you are. Without any preconceived notions of perfection. Without feeling like a failure for “falling off the train” because it’s a few weeks into the new year and you haven’t achieved all your goals. No matter what day it is. Without any reason other than because you feel like it. Better late than never, better you than anyone else. Baby steps, one foot in front of the other, slow and steady, herky jerky, in a minute. It doesn’t matter the day, it doesn’t matter the time it takes, it doesn’t matter if the process or outcome is complete or unflawed…just that you’re showing up for you and trying your best. And hey. If you (*cough*… if “I”) need that glass of Tuesday wine once in a while…it’s fine. Tomorrow is just as good as any to again be “so fresh and so clean clean,” in the wise words of the rapper OutKast. We don’t need to wait for New Years Day to start again.