Memento

It's funny to me how they like the same
color
things.
Both could spend time on
just so
and they both have an eye.

I walk around her apartment
the small succulents in soft yellow cachepots
lined up in a row
among candles and river stones,
perched on the sill
overlooking the street below,
all on square turquoise plates
The pumpkin orange coffee mugs
on the shelf next to four small dishes
from my grandmother.
The coffee pot and grinder and toaster and beans
and small ceramic spoons in a glass
The lacquered red boxes
holding nothing
on display with the things my sister makes
of pieces of puzzles
held together with color.

Both love things.
They derive great pleasure from things
and the moments and places where they find them.
They collect and curate
and always share gladly
and sometimes forget what they might already have.
I wander slowly through the place
and imagine these collections of objects
in my own home
with color I can't get right
on furniture that wobbles.
Too much.
Not enough.
I rearrange and clear off surfaces
and closets
until they hold nothing.

The Washcloth Resolution

When I was little, I made the same single resolution every year, writing it on a small piece of paper which I'd fold and put somewhere. "I will wash my face with a washcloth every day."  That was it. No promises of better diet or behavior, no hopes to do or see more. Yet despite how simple a plan it appeared to be, it remained unresolved, and was put back on that childish grand To Do list every New Year's Eve.

As I look back, I should have stuck to the ease of the washcloth promise. Eventually, I'm sure I could have succeeded, or decided it was not important to wash with a washcloth despite the or elses of my mother. Instead, at the end of every adult year, I lay the template of my life before me, and I make great plans to embellish.

This year, my plans loom larger than ever. With no children to raise, no job to attend,  I've thought through and suggested and tried out a myriad of ideas, where I want to go, how I want to be, imagining the rich fabric of days ahead.  And while I might not be known as a great planner, often more impulsive than thoughtful, I've spent hours and days pinning thoughts and wishes to the year to come.

In early December, I spent a half an hour in front of the calendars and journals and planners at Marshall's. I was looking for the one that would make sure I don't just write down dentist and hair appointments but that helps me draw long lines through days, setting them aside for myself. The calendar had to be monthly, with room to write. Not too big of a calendar because I want to carry it in my purse. No kittens or pictures of Milan, but also no Staples logo in the corner or any semblance of office calendar. No passages from the Bible or pointed fingers to be my best self and live each day.

On that first of two visits to  Marshall's, I found it. It said 2016 on it and was a simple, well-sized calendar with golden dates and card stock pages.  Nothing else.  And it was only $7.99. I held it, wandered through the housewares and clothing aisles, all while thinking about which pen I'd use in it and how I'd be sure to not clutter it up with mundane appointments, reserving it for Eat Pray Love level of ideas, and then I put it down and left. What did I need a calendar for?  I'd vowed I was going to just use my phone for a calendar this year, and last year I'd purchased a similar calendar only to fill it with people's birthdays and the upcoming dentist appointment, and then I'd abandoned it two weeks into the year.  But my phone calendar is flawed.  Up come work reminders that are interspersed with home ones, the "Send out Accounts Receivable emails" mixed in with "Dog to vet" ones, and they don't announce themselves and they aren't pretty. I can't buy just the right pen to fill in the dates. I like pens. And paper,

So I returned to Marshall's to get that calendar I'd abandoned too quickly, and it was gone. I searched through the Dream Big ones and the kittens, and couldn't find it.  Instead, I bought a colorful card stock calendar for the fridge where he could write "Tennis" on every Wednesday and I could write the occasional "Dentist."  I succumbed to the only one left that wasn't full of animals or bible verses, but was unfortunately one of the bossy ones. While it met the requirements of months I could write in and fitting into my purse, it shouted Do it, damn you! commands so popular these days as if we've all forgotten how to be.

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.

Live the life you have imagined.

Live Love Laugh.

Just shut the hell up. The end of the year and the beginning of the next is always fraught with a terrifying mix of promise and failure.  This year in particular, I've spent months anticipating the coming year, how I will leave my job, and how for the first time in my life I will craft my days and explore my wishes. I'm sure there are cracks in my plan. Yet here I am,  that perfect moment when the clock strikes the new year and glittering, glorious promise is laid before me.

January 1st.  I have coffee, I am sitting in my favorite spot, the birds visit the feeder out of the corner of my eye, and I step onto the fragile plan of my life moving forward, hoping it holds me.