A new year dawns. And as if on cue, snow is falling outside, obligingly offering me a clean slate.
In anticipation of this new year, I spent the past few days with rulers, pens, glue and magazine clippings, setting up my latest bullet journal.
In my younger years I would have filled the pages with goals tailored to produce a stronger, better me by year’s end. But I’ve recently soured on nearly all forms of self-improvement. Striving for an extraordinary life taxes me; my new ambition is to excel at an ordinary one.
To excel at ordinary, I welcome the idea that each day has its own personality, and my role is to foster friendliness with it by day’s end. My journal pages reflect this pursuit.
This posture, obviously, is more about receiving than directing. And it’s the polar opposite of what contemporary culture coaches. We are told to make something of each day.
I prefer to be made.
