I just finished an hour of yoga and am so glad I got off my bum to do it. I was feeling a little wishy-washy this morning, a little apathetic, unmotivated, maybe even a little pathetic. I knew some stretching and breathing would help, so I shook off the mean reds and went to it.
And now I’m glad. There’s this peace and calm and presence that comes over me after yoga. It’s so serene. I feel bolstered and encouraged, but at that same, reassured and quieted.
Basically, just what I needed.
Today is the first day in 2 weeks that the temperature will rise above the teens.
Also, the sun is going to be out. This means I can leave the apartment without feeling like I’m going to die within 2 minutes.
And that means I’m heading to Barnes and Noble for a new planner (in the history of me buying planners, it usually plays out like this: I find one I’m enamored with after searching for 30 minutes. I bring it home, write in the birthdays of everyone I know, jot in it religiously for 1.5 months, and then forget all about it).
Also to Target because we’re out of coffee and tomorrow is the first day of classes and I am not at all interested in approaching that uncaffeinated.
Last night I spent a good amount of time reading through a couple old journals of mine. I’ve kept a journal since…hmm…maybe 4th grade? Can’t say for sure, but a long time.
I used to write copious amounts in my journals. Blah blah blahing about anything and everything. I still keep a journal, but entries are much shorter now; usually just one brief page. And I’m okay with that. It’s much more quality over quantity these days. I’d say one page of my current journal says more than a weeks worth of entries in my 6th grade diary.
Speaking of diaries, I was reading the other day about the difference between diaries and journals. Not something I had really thought about, but an important distinction in some contexts. I’ve pretty much always referred to my personal notebook as my journal. Diary sounds dumb. Anyways, the distinction made in whatever it was I was reading was that a diary is a record of events, whereas a journal is a record of thoughts (oftentimes about those events).
Now I’m wondering what it would be like to keep a diary. An actual record of what I do each day. Not like “Woke up. Showered. Drank coffee. Scanned facebook.” But a memory of important moments. I remember a brief span of time–probably a week–where my goal in my journal was to record a moment in time from the day. Just a simple moment that I thought would be good to hold onto. The point was to give me something worthwhile to jot down, but also to be a touch more aware of my day in reflection, to appreciate the moments more. Maybe I’ll try that again.
Last night, in my dreams, a dozen high school crushes and mistakes visited me. It was a sad dream, full of nostalgia and hurt.
I remember sitting in the snow, wearing a sleeveless sundress. Scanning faces, looking for the one that was “mine,” because I knew I had someone amongst the crowd. The confusion of finding no one. The hurt of being alone again, feeling left out, like I did so often in high school.
I seldom feel nostalgic about high school. It was four years of questing for I didn’t know what, four years of thinking I knew myself so well when, in fact, I knew so little about me, for years of feeling insecure and inadequate. And I’m usually pretty good about letting go of past mistakes. Forgiving myself for my ignorance and naivety. But dreams have that special power over you; the very real-ness of them makes those lingering feelings hard to shake in the morning. Like a suspended ball of lead in your chest, you just have to wait it out, remembering all the while that life is better now, life is oh so much better now.
Woke up this morning to even.more.snow.
It’s so bizarre to me. I’ve seen more snow in one month in Nebraska than I was used to seeing in an entire winter in Missouri.
I feel so conflicted about it all, too. I’ve always really really liked snow. It’s hard not to appreciate the softness it lends to the landscape, the way it glints in the sunlight. Many happy child memories of bundling up in puffy pink coveralls and sliding down the small hill in front of our house with my sisters.
But it’s so cold here. Which makes snow not much fun. I mean, I’d be happy to go tramping through the fluff (okay–through carved paths in the fluff; really not interested in sludging through snow up to my kneecaps) if I thought I wouldn’t be miserable after about three minutes. Even the best bundling won’t protect you from 0°.
I always feel a little conflicted about New Year’s Day. As a lover of planning and organizing, it seems natural to want to seize the newness of it all–the opportunity to start again fresh and squeaky clean. But, as a realist and maybe something of a cynicist, something about it feels forced. Like just because we swapped out calendars and a few numbers, we’re supposed to be new people. Born again without our weaknesses, flaws, and secret vices.
I’m not really into resolutions. I feel like I’m constantly forming them for myself throughout the year, and even then I hardly ever follow through on them. So superimposing them on top of some artificial sense of newness seems more problematic than helpful.
I don’t mean to be all grumpy about the new year. All the possibilities of January 1 do excite me. Last year was the year of the wedding, the honeymoon, the big move, the start of grad school. I’m not sure what this year will be known for. I guess all I’m really hoping for out of 2010 is a year of contentment and balance. It sounds simple enough. But then again, these types of things always do.
