A new year has arrived, bearing its usual conglomeration of rosy resolutions. My Facebook feed is abuzz with hopeful goals and noble intentions – public promises to act better, do better, be better.
Good riddance, 2015, and hello to a fresh start!
Excited to forget the past and look forward to the future!
This year had its fair share of trials – bring on 2016!
Today is not a day for stains. Today is a day for canvases, pristine and white.
It’s more than just the pursuit of perfection – the inevitably discouraging quest for flawless excellence – that’s got my wheels turning today. Although there’s something undeniably intoxicating about a blank page (for me, both literally and metaphorically), there’s something equally demoralizing about messing that page up.
It goes like this.
You’re working on a masterpiece, a beautiful collage of everything good, when suddenly your pencil slips outside the lines. It’s ruined, this creation of yours, irreversibly damaged by a careless reminder of your artistic incompetence.
So you open another blank page and start again. (Which you can do, by the way, because you’re human and one of the perks of being human is that your pages are infinite. Lucky you!)
Before you know it, you’ve got hundreds of half-finished masterpieces collecting dust on the shelf – masterpieces filled with unintentional scribbles binding your book to everyone else’s – and January 1st is worldwide burn day.
Today, as I watch the flames consume their powerless prey, I find myself wondering if those scribbles merit a second look. Is it possible, I ask myself, that they aren’t really scribbles at all?
Today – New Year’s Day, 2016 – I find myself wondering what would happen if, rather than momentarily resolving my imperfections away, I decided to love them instead.