The myth about January
On New Years Day, Shawn and I cleaned out the attic—round two or three or ten of the never-ending attic project that I started last summer. Later, I took down the Christmas decorations and the next day, I returned them to our clean-ish attic.
The whole time I was ignoring rumblings of snow headed our way, because we live in Charleston and it never snows. I was also ignoring the weather reports because, as much as I'd enjoyed the holiday season, I was officially over it and ready to get back into my routine.
There's something about January that makes me crave a clean house, a clean slate, and a fresh start. I’m raring to go with goals, plans, and sparkly visions for the new year ahead.
Fast forward to January 4th, the day the kids were supposed to return to school and life was supposed to return to normal (cough). School was canceled. Bridges were closed. By late morning, TV news reports confirmed the city was shutting down.
Meanwhile, I was still in my pajamas (if I'm not leaving the house what's the point?), and I was writing in my notebook and brainstorming 2018 blog post ideas. Shawn was working at the kitchen counter, the kids were playing upstairs, and no one was pestering me with questions like, “When is it going to snow?”
Because no one in my house believed it was going to snow. That is, until it started to snow.
Real snow. Big fat snow. The kind that doesn't melt when it hits the ground. The kind that inspires snowball fights, snow angels, and snowmen.
My son named him Meh. Funny, right?
Luckily, we’d recently returned from our first family ski trip in North Carolina so we had warm clothes and snow gear on the ready. Otherwise, we would've been digging through the clean-ish attic in search of coats and hats and complaining about gloves with no matches.
We got dressed quickly, went outside, and gathered with neighbors. We marveled at the sight of our cul-de-sac as it disappeared under a blanket of white.
At some point in the midst of this—somewhere between sliding out of my comfy pjs and into waterproof pants that swish when I walk—I conceded and gave a silent nod to January.
Good game, January. Good game.
Here's the truth about January: it's a false start.
How many times has January proven this? I expect January to perform like Spring, and January is all, "Hello? Have you met me? I'm January. I'm winter. I'm flu season. Do you even know me?"
The whole idea of New Year! New You! is a myth. It's the kind of all or nothing mentality that sets me up for frustration and failure. Instead, every year, January reminds me to do this:
Zoom in.
Despite my best intentions and plans, I can’t control the universe. Sometimes I have to drop everything and embrace the unexpected thing. I need to stop being so resistant to and afraid of that. Sometimes, when I zoom in and allow myself to be right where I am, magic happens.
Zoom out.
Each day is a gift, and a year goes by in a blink. When I zoom out and see the big picture, I remember that there will be plenty of ordinary days ahead. Plenty of days to be in the routine and check things off my to-do list.
Once I recover from my holiday hangover, I start thinking about the important things that I am—once and for all—going to prioritize. I feel a lot of momentum and energy, because I know if I prioritize the important things, my life will be better overall.
But the new year is not like a horse race. I don't have to burst out of the gate when the gun goes off and run like hell because there's only one chance to win.
I can start again.
There isn't one set day on the calendar to make things new. There are actually 365. As long as I'm healthy and breathing, there's always another chance to continue what I started. Or, to simply begin.
