For my birthday last year, I was gifted one of those five-year, line-a-day journals and I started filling it out on January 1. I don’t fill it out every day, but I do my best to fill in the blanks when I’ve lapsed a few.
I love the concept of the book. I’m one of those weirdos who keeps my calendar year-after-year so I can look back at it someday, but I never do. This book is better because it’s a self-contained little capsule of five whole years, or at least it will be when it’s completely filled at the end of 2021 (yep, feel free to throw up in your mouth a little at the thought of 2021 as I just did).
What I don’t like about it is that it shines a light on days that are basic and ordinary. I don’t want to write down “I fell asleep on the couch watching Netflix” or “I ran the dishwasher three times today” or “I lost my mind at the kids when they just. wouldn’t. stop. bickering.”
It makes me wonder what little changes I could and should make to make my days a little more significant. How can I live with more purpose? How can I waste less time? After all, we only get so many opportunities. But then I think, maybe my perspective is just off and I’m not seeing special moments for what they really are because I’m too busy worrying/multitasking/talking/texting/stressing/well, you get it.
And then I realize that maybe it doesn’t have to be so difficult. Like right now, for example. Mike and Isaac are playing in the backyard and Jacob just took off biking with his friends. For those reasons, my entries today could be “Spring is finally starting to come around!” or “I’m so thankful that we live in a neighbourhood with lots of families so our kids have lots of friends to play with” or “It’s so nice when I have a few minutes alone in which to think and write.”
Why to we take the simplest things and make them more complicated than they need to be?
Oh, it’s just me?