Yesterday I finally put up a new calendar. Thumbing through 2012's, it looked like I didn’t do anything but go to a few doctor’s visits.
There was nothing on last year’s calendar about the hours I spent in my study reading and writing. I read sixteen fiction novels and two books on the craft of writing. (That’s probably a drop in the bucket compared to my friends in my writers group.) I did journal quite a bit. I attended a religious book study during the first of the summer which required a lot of bible reading. When it was finished, I joined another bible study. (I should put The Bible on my have-read list.) There were two semesters of the MTSU Writer’s Loft this year, sending in three packets of original material for critique. During the summer, I finished the first draft of my first novel, created a working plot sketch for it, and started on the intensive revision process.
Nothing noted on my calender about my incredible decision to withdraw from a church I have gone to for the last twelve years. Or the grief I felt.
Nothing about telling my life story to a room full of anonymous friends who are like me, recovering from codependence. The calendar made no mention they took me out to dinner afterward to celebrate my life or that I had known these lovely friends for years. The Wednesday night meetings weren’t marked either.
There wasn’t a reference of getting the deck renewed and listening to the construction noise all day or gathering the courage to tell the contractor he messed up something or painting the front porch or getting two new windows installed because of sun damage. Or the hours I spent on the lawn mower.
The only notations that showed I struggled with acute knee pain were two doctor's appointments; the twelve weekly routine physical therapy visits I didn't need to post. There’s nothing about my new habit first thing in the mornings—riding an exercise bike for an hour or going swimming twice a week.
There was a long marking-out line from 8/17--8/24, but it said nothing about the beauty of our Maine Coast vacation. I saw the tail of a whale, a bald eagle, and ate lobster. I fell in love with Maine. I fell in love with my husband again, too. And, God gave me the most beautiful sunset as a going away present the morning we left for home.
I marked the dates of the writers group I attend, but nothing about the first, third, and fifth Thursdays of each month described how incredible friendships grew, or even that I became daring enough to read the beginnings of my work. Nothing on my calendar showed the impromptu Facebook insomnia nightly chats with these friends who left me giggling and less lonely.
Monthly notations for my dog's heartworm pills prompted me to keep her healthy, but it certainly didn’t show how many times she nosed me to let her out, or when she chased rabbits and didn’t come back when I called, or when she stayed right next to me mostly throughout the year while I wrote, while I painted, while I watched TV, while I read.
This morning, I realized I didn’t utilize the calendar last year. I must have just been living too much. How about your calendar? Did it minimize your daily living? I'd love to know.
