I first wrote the following post about how much I love new calendars in January 2020, when I was full of ideas and plans about the coming year. Oops. But even as the pandemic waxed and waned, I continued to love calendars. I’d head into January with the idea that I needed to start this new month, and this new year, with renewed energy and enthusiasm. I opened up my clean new calendars, I made lists, I came up with “programs.” This was the year that I’d get on top of my finances, that I’d finish the book, that I’d become both a dedicated meditation practitioner, adept at slowing down and being in the present moment, and also pack the days with everything I wanted to learn: Spanish, mandolin, quilt-making, capoeira.
Well. By the end of January, all my plans fizzled. Instead of starting the year strong, I’d fall on my face. Last year, the one thing I completed in January was binge-watching the series “Younger,“ which felt like it was speaking directly to my soul. I, too, had spent all this time raising my kids and now was in the no-woman’s-land doldrums of middle age (but, unfortunately, no one was confusing me for Sutton Foster.)
Around the same time as I descended into the first of seven seasons, I began hearing rumblings of rebellion against January as a month of getting your life together. I’d get newsletters from writers like Anna Brones talking about using midwinter as a time of restoration. Hmm. Was that even possible for a calendar lover?
I’m giving it a try. I did buy my big Ansel Adams calendar, but it’s still sitting in the closet in shrinkwrap. I have a daybook, but I haven’t written in it for the past two days. I still haven’t gotten the 2024 edition of the desk calendar I’ve been relying on for several years to track activities and adventures.
I feel . . . surprisingly ok. The days seem less packed, and I haven’t been worried that I’m already behind, because I wasn’t trying to get ahead. I’m finding myself looking more at the trees and the winter stars.
One more good thing: by the time I get my desk calendar, it will probably be on sale. Look at me, making progress on my finances after all!
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So, on Monday I went away to get some writing done. I was at a cheap AirBnB 10 minutes from my house. It’s the first week in January, and although I’m one of those people who doesn’t believe in New Year’s resolutions, I wanted some time at the beginning of the year to see where I was on some various projects. And to work on my calendars.
Oh, I love new calendars. The year has so much promise! All those empty squares! I actually have four calendars. One is a big Ansel Adams that goes in the kitchen—I get the same one every year—with big things like birthdays and days off and trips. Then I have my phone and a daybook, which both have appointments and interviews and when I’m supposed to pick up and drop off different kids to different activities. I like the phone because my husband and I can both see what’s going on; I like the paper calendar because it helps me see the week as a whole and writing down each entry by hand helps me remember. And then (then!) I have another, more substantial-looking inspirational sort of calendar where I try to write in the things I want to focus on most—writing, surfing, yoga, adventures. Cheesy, I know, but I can tell I’m getting off track when I stop writing in it.
At least these calendars all have the same number of days. If I’d been filling out calendars in 1752, I would have lost eleven whole days. (Other problems: There would be no Ansel Adams calendar. There definitely wouldn’t be the one that said things like, “Put self-care on your schedule this week, and treat it like any other important appointment” either. And the daybook, which is decorated with the phases of the moon and lists Celtic holidays like Imbolc and Samhain, might have meant that I filled most of my days with escaping witch hunts.) That’s the year that Britain and all its colonies switched from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar. They needed to lose these days to catch up.
I can lose a day without any official mandate. And it seems like I’m losing more of them every year, the calendar pages shuffling by at time-lapse speed. Last year, Duke engineering professor Adrian Bejan described the reason why he thought time seems to speed up as we get older in the European Review. He attributes this acceleration to the slow down in our mental processing time. As we get older, our brains can’t take in and integrate as many images as quickly as we once did; because we’re getting fewer images during the same amount of time, it affects how we perceive the time. (When I posted this previously, brave reader Sara O’Donnell recommended the word zenosyne, the sense that time appears to be moving faster and faster, particularly as we get older. And Adrian Bejan kindly wrote to say that anyone who’d like to know more about his work could check out his book, Time and Beauty.)
“People are often amazed at how much they remember from days that seemed to last forever in their youth,” said Bejan in a 2019 press release. “It’s not that their experiences were much deeper or more meaningful, it’s just that they were being processed in rapid fire.”
Maybe I like my calendars because they pin the time down to something I can see. They make it seem measurable, perhaps something that I could even control. But looking back at my last year’s calendars, I saw those weeks where I forgot to write anything at all. Were those days faster or slower, more or less of what I hoped they would be? Was I really off track, or was I just living?
Still, I couldn’t help myself. The sun was rising out the window of the studio—the only marker of time I would need on a day where I could truly do whatever I wanted. But first, I opened my calendar and began to write.
Image by Dafne Cholet via Wikimedia Commons, under Creative Commons license 2.0
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