Last night as we were getting ready for bed, my husband thanked me for a lovely Christmas. Not that most of our Christmases haven't been great, but yesterday had a certain calmness about it - in spite of the fact that I'd slept miserably the night before. I didn't whine about being tired, but I did preempt any criticism that might come my way by warning my menfolk that I'd been awake since 4:00 am.
"Just for today, everything I do is awesome" I told them."I'm really tired, but I'll do my best."
And I did - and everything was great.
It's been a less frenzied holiday season than usual since I retired "Holiday Dreams Sharon". There's been no mad dash to meet self-imposed deadlines. The cards went out later than usual, and I shrugged it off. When I couldn't find the scotch tape to wrap gifts, I used a roll of painter's tape. On Christmas Eve when my rolls came out of the oven a little darker than they could've been, I let it go. I'm still breaking in the new oven, and forget sometimes that it runs hotter than my last. No big deal.
Instead of racing through my holiday checklist, I opted to pace myself. Every day I assessed my schedule to determine what I could realistically accomplish. If I had to miss a trip to the gym to finish up some task, it wasn't the end of the world. When I got off my treadmill I cooled down by watching my favorite home show and wrapping gifts. I made cookie dough earlier in the day and put batches in the oven while I was cooking supper. I made small changes in my habits, and bigger changes occurred in my attitude. Gradually I found myself doing more that I wanted to do, and less that I felt I had to do. I was more serene - and happier.
I took every chance I could find to admire Christmas lights and I went caroling. I decorated my house once - no fine tuning of the Christmas trees or moving stuff around. It was fine as it was.
On Christmas Day I didn't complain about being stuck in the kitchen, because I didn't consign myself to the role of scullery maid for a solid block of the day. We ate breakfast, then put in the turkey. We opened gifts. My mom and I played Rummikub and perused new books while my husband and sons watched television. The veggies got peeled, the salad got made. Treats got arranged on a platter for dessert. A chore was done here and there in the midst of our relaxing. I took it all in stride without stressing over the potatos getting a bit cool while we waited for the obstinate bird to cook. I reminded myself that there was no hard and fast time that supper had to be on the table.
I paced myself. I consulted no checklists, and everything was great largely because I didn't expect one single thing to be perfect.
A few weeks before Christmas, when the idea of "listing" was very much on my mind, I found a poem I'd started to write a few years back...
My List: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, (January 2010)
I view my list of things to do
with much less than delight -
in fact it leaves me feeling blue
and makes my muscles tight.
Sometimes it seems that what gets done
is only what I must -
more complicated tasks I'll shun
until list gathers dust.
When my surroundings grow unkempt
and chaos rules the day
I'll once more make a brave attempt
to clear debris away.
Still other times, consumed by guilt
I'll formulate a plan -
then get to work and go full tilt
to finish all I can.
Yet even then it seems that list
is never quite complete.
I'm bound to note some item missed
and slump in self defeat.
...and that's where the poem fizzled out, with me being annoyed with myself for not doing everything I thought I needed to do. I had left more room on the page, expecting more inspiration to come to bring said poem to some satisfactory conclusion. But instead it stopped right there - an unfinished poem about list items that never get checked off. A sad and dreary little ode that, like "Holiday Dreams Sharon" needed to be given a happier twist.
I've come to realize that nobody has higher expectations of me than me. My husband and sons are usually pretty happy with my efforts. I don't get a lot of complaints about the quality of meals I serve or the state of the house. My time is pretty flexible - I get to choose what I do when. Nobody berates me when I don't accomplish everything I've put on my checklist for that day, or that week, or even that year - except me.
And nobody can change that behavior but me. So a few weeks ago, after I'd decided to re-brand my holiday persona, I found that poem and finished it like this:
But then I cut myself some slack -
that list is just a guide;
suggestions to keep me on track -
I'll take it all in stride.
And if today I need some fun
because I'm overtaxed,
tomorrow more things will get done
when I feel more relaxed.
As January nears, many of us will be setting goals for 2015. I'm sure I will make a few lists of my own, but I will keep in mind that these jottings are "just a guide" - some suggestions to myself about what I might want to work on. Nothing is written in stone, and the vast majority of "to-do" items on any list I write don't have to be completed by a set date. Probably most of your goals have some flexibility too, so cut yourself some slack. Strive for a realistic pace.
This will be the year I remember that everyone navigates the world differently, and that I too will need to adjust my gait on a daily basis. Some days I'll run, and others I'll rest.
Stride: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Some trudge, some tramp, some toddle,
some tread at plodding pace -
and there are some who dawdle
while others always race.
Some stroll or strut or sidle -
some saunter and some stalk;
still others just stand idle,
preferring not to walk.
Some limp, shuffle or hobble -
their movement isn't swift;
and some from drink may wobble -
may teeter or may drift.
Some march like they're on parade,
goose-stepping to a beat;
others gad and promenade
and flutter on their feet.
Some adopt an easy gait,
some set off at a clip -
not content to sit and wait
'til someone cracks the whip.
Perambulations vary.
At times we leap and bound,
but there are days we tarry;
we loll and laze around.
As we step our way through life
we must adjust our speed -
circumnavigate the strife
and pause to beauty heed.
Jogging, dashing, making haste;
always in a hurry.
So much energy we waste
when like mice we scurry.
En route to a distant place
we'll falter, slip and slide -
and lament our lack of grace
until we hit our stride.
Life isn't a race, or a series of mazes we need to run ratlike through in order to win a prize. Our days are a series of events - some requiring a speed and others testing our endurance. Some days very little will be required of us except our presence. I vow I will aim to be more present in my life; to live each moment more mindfully and to pay more attention to "here and now", and to who is here, now. I'm not going to beat myself up for walking a leg or two of what seems like an epic marathon, for not making the best time or winning a big trophy. I'm not going to worry about who is faster or has better form.
I'm learning the importance of pacing myself, and this just might be the year I hit my stride.
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