Will this be the year we finally
lose weight? Win the lottery? Have unforeseen surgery? Finally get married?
Finally get divorced? Move?
Lose that last, dumb, bad habit? Lose
the house in a fire?
It’s exciting when you think about
it – so many possibilities, so many potential disasters. Here be dragons
indeed.
Maybe this year we’ll go camping.
Or volunteer at the after-school literacy program. Or start painting again. Or
finally watch the rest of Game of Thrones.
Or not.
One thing I’m finally going to do
for sure is update all my software, and back up all my files to an external
drive and the cloud. Yeah. Sure.
And clean out the garage, and take
those dried up paint cans to the recycling place – and the old electronics and computers
too. As soon as I download all the documents and folders off of them. Any
minute now.
And I’ll finally get my office filing
system purged, sorted, and well, filed.
And the photos. Oh God, the
photos.
So January is looking pretty busy.
But then I stop and tell myself,
wait. Hold on. Why are you doing this again? Why are you creating all these
ridiculous scenarios, these bright fantasies of accomplishment? It’s one thing
to have aspirations – it’s another to be delusional.
What’s really going to happen is
this. On that fine January morning I’m going to get up, have some coffee, read
for a bit, then log on and take care of correspondence. A dozen emails to
write, website updates to create, performance and speaking schedules to manage.
And then there are upcoming writing deadlines to prioritize, and articles, columns,
and courses to plan, draft, format, and finalize. By then it’s lunch.
After lunch I notice that the
kitchen could use some attention. I’ll empty, then fill the dishwasher. And
throw in a load of laundry, or three. Maybe pop over to the store for some
food, and get a plan for dinner going.
Then I remember that the car
needs gas, and there are a few things at the dry cleaners that need picking up.
I’ve forgotten them so long they probably sold them by now.
Pulling back into the driveway I
see my neighbor raking the last leaves of winter from beneath her bare trees.
We chat for a while about neighborhood stuff and recent travels – hers to
London, ours to Sedona – and then I hear the drier buzzer. Time to swap loads.
Coming back into the house with
my groceries and dry cleaning I see that the cat has vomited in the hallway. I
clean it up.
I put away the groceries and wonder
what surprises all those unmarked containers in the freezer hold. They must be
something good or I wouldn’t have frozen them. I’ll figure it out later.
Then a cool song I heard in the
car by Dawes or Steve Earle or somebody rises up in my head and I grab my
guitar to chase whatever comes along. A new song takes shape. I am only vaguely
aware that I have anything to do with it – it seems to be writing itself, or
simply arriving. I have two verses, a
chorus, and part of a bridge when the buzzer sounds again. I take the hot, dry
clothes out of the dryer and load in the cold, soggy ones from the washer. I
push the buttons.
I see that the mail has arrived.
Including those two checks I’ve been waiting for. I sign them and deposit them
with the credit union app on my phone.
The phone rings and I talk to a
friend for half an hour.
The sun is getting low. Better
start dinner.
And fold the laundry.
When Lori gets home from her long
day at work, we finish making dinner and eat. Then more dishes.
And now it’s dark. It’s been a
long day. Feet up.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll get to that
garage clean-up and all the rest of the things on my to-do list. But now, I got
a peaceful, easy feeling. The work is done.
Some laughs. Stories.
Reconnection. Holding hands as we fall asleep.
What’s the point of having a home
if you don’t stop to enjoy it? Your house shouldn’t only be a work site, a
place of unending obligations and incomplete tasks. A home should be a refuge,
a safe place to hide, a soft place to land. A place to dream dreams.
I’m taking a second look at my
January plans.
Maybe this time I’ll just keep it
simple. One thing at a time. As I engage in each task, really be present in
that task, instead of thinking about the next nine things I have to do as soon
as I finish this one. And leave plenty of time between for neighbors, songs,
and the beauty of the world pouring in through the windows.
A contemplative mood is one of
the special treasures of winter.
January may be a time of starting
over. But it’s also a time for looking back. January gets its name from the
Roman god Janus, the keeper of keys and doorways. (Janus is also where janitors
get their name – they too have the key to every door). Janus has an unusual
feature. You’d notice it right away if you ever saw him. He has two faces – one
looking back and one looking forward. This gives Janus a breadth of awareness
many of us lack. Most of us focus only on our own narrow, immediate interests.
But Janus sees it all. The wisdom
he’s gained from his long perspective enables him to correctly assess the value
of this present moment. He’s well aware of everything that’s been lost. And
he’s also aware that up ahead there be dragons. But it doesn’t stop him from
turning the key and opening doors anyway. He doesn’t hide from the past, nor
does he fear the future. His is a total and heartfelt acceptance. In his wisdom
he knows what to do, and he knows how to do it.
So do we.
The balance we strike between
intention and renunciation is the vibrant nexus from which our most authentic
creativity comes. Are we willing to show up fully alive in this next now
moment, free from the past and heartily accepting of the future? More than any
other force, the consciousness we bring into this moment shapes whatever unfolds.
When we resolve to live purposefully, deliberately, authentically, and
courageously, the doors begin to open. We hold in our hands the keys of Janus.
And damn the dragons. “Once you make a decision,” Emerson wrote, “the universe
conspires to make it happen.”
