Three drafts reside on my Google Drive: a children’s story about a clown dog, a ghost story with only three pages written, and a true story about me and my relationships. All started, none completed.
A to-do list jotted down in a spiral notebook with ugly, yellow pages, sits on my desk at work. Some things are crossed off, some things are not.
A 2015 list of resolutions is folded eight times in a small white, cardboard box; it’s never been taken out since the move.
If I unfold the piece of paper, one corner at a time, to reveal the list I wrote in 2015, would I be disappointed? Probably.
Half a lemon in the fridge unused, white clothing still sit at the bottom of the hamper unwashed (I never have enough whites for a full load, I tell myself), and the woman I am meant to be — she’s still under construction.
I wonder if I’ll ever complete one damn thing. This realization, the list of uncompleted tasks, learned skills, wants, and desires is what leaves me so unsatisfied.
I try to cut corners to rid of this unsatisfying feeling by quickly crossing things off my list fast, send out a bunch of senseless emails, and drink five cups of coffee to not energize me. But it’s no use, I just crash.
I’m back to square one more tired, more anxious, and more unsatisfied than I was before. What will it take to complete something and feel good about it? I wonder.
This is nothing new. When I was a younger, it was a violin that never got played, a softball that never got hit with a bat, and songs that never got sang in choir (because I quit them all).
I wish I had the answer. I wish there was a “method” to the madness. There isn’t. What I need is a “solution” to the madness.
For now, I’m going courageously unfold my list of 2015 resolutions, cross off the few things I did accomplish, and spend the last month crossing off more. There is still time.
Ultimately this will create room, more space, and it will be a month well spent.