It is January 15, 2022, and many of us, having already given up on our New Years’ resolutions, might be feeling defeated and glum, perhaps even a little hopeless. The habit of adopting aspirational goals and visions, as we cross the calendar border of time from the old to the new year is deeply rooted and culturally ubiquitous (at least in some countries). Even if we don’t make official resolutions, the possibility of doing so, maybe even the responsibility to do so, is likely part and parcel of many of our seasons, year after year. Nearing the finish line seems to summon new possibilities automatically, prompting us, at least temporarily, away from default thinking or behavior to dreamier, right-brained questions, full of imagination and blank-chalkboard wonder. “What is possible?” we ask, and with chalky hands we let ourselves write, like the children we may have once been—freer to be vulnerable, almost naively wishful, inner critic voices not yet drowning our intrepid, sweaty-hand desires.
I know it’s easy to feel discouraged when our sometimes-lofty goals fall flat as winter leaves, scurrying and wind-blown, brown, and crunchy under our sneakered feet. We can easily categorize the fresh loss as just one more example of this disappointment or that one, accumulated piles of what’s not good enough about us or our lives. Truly, there is nothing shameful about shoulder-shrugged sighs and cast down eyes when despair overwhelms us.
Yet, to be stuck in that feeling for too long (and this is a personal thing, not a universal timeframe), rather than letting it pass through you, as just one thought of many in your naturally stream-of-conscious mind is giving it more attention than it deserves. The new year is somewhat artificial, you know. It’s a construct that is real, but, in terms of our readiness for change, it is a mere symbolic marker—incapable of serving as a universal harbinger for everyone’s willingness or preparedness to let go of old routines and find the newly sought.
It may not be that we binarily chuck the tradition of New Year’s resolutions completely merely because the practice isn’t always glowing as twinkle lights, often more like the brief and tiny fanfares of hand-held sparklers instead of those majestic firecracker displays of power and prowess. It may be that we view them as mere practice, chalk it up (yes, I’m back to that metaphor) to an experiment of being and carefully regard the positives and pitfalls—the gains we made, the strengths we employed, just as much as the shortcomings and the reasons behind them.
Everyday of this new year is a singular beauty. Yes, January 15th happens annually, but in this year it only happens once. Progress is as much about the starts and stops, the knee-bruises and split lips, the threadbare and wrinkled, as it is about the parts of our courses where all seems destined in our favor, and we flow almost effortlessly, flawlessly. Progress isn’t linear and time is sometimes the best friend we have, ever faithful and telling, urging us always to the critical moments and tipping points—regardless of the constructs we make and adhere to—about when change is upon us, at last.
Cheers to 2022!