Nature May Abhor a Vacuum but Suburbia Sure Loves a Leaf Blower.
In the verdant suburban sprawl, the uninitiated masses vainly search for the quaint silence once celebrated in pastoral myths — charming, perhaps, to those with less refined tastes. The modern sophisticate, however, appreciates the richness offered by the incessant, blaring symphonies of human achievement. Why pine for the whisper of wind when one can revel in the roar of an arsenal of machinery running day or night (or both!)? Here, in these cultivated fields of progress, the glorious din of civilization justly overrules the silence sought by the hoi polloi. This sonic landscape is not for those unfortunates who crave a rough-hewn quietude, but rather for the discerning citizen who understands that true progress resonates through the hum of industry. The air simply must crackle with the sounds of civilization’s upkeep, the resounding overture of spring.
Pop Quiz! In the above sentence, “this” refers to:
a) Navigating a Trader Joe’s parking lot without emotional or vehicular damage.
b) Leaving a voicemail (!) without a panic outro.
c) Loading the dishwasher without it provoking a weird fork argument with your spouse.
d) The New Year’s ritual of declaring goals, intentions, and a revised version of yourself.
The answer is D.
(Technically, “All of the above” applies to me, although for the record, I recently exited a TJ’s parking lot and only two people flipped me off. I also tumbled headfirst into a grocery cart corral, if you’d like a fun visual. But I digress.)
New Year’s goals are an annual ritual for deciding who we will become next. Broadly speaking, the available options appear to be: Do more of something. Do less of something. Be more yourself. Be less of whoever you’ve been.
I am not by nature a Grand Goals Person. I am a “Could These Goals Be Administered In A Single Daily Capsule?” Person. What I’m trying to say is that I’m in a stage of life where I forget that I set goals at all, never mind following through on the “actionable steps” required to achieve them. January rolls in, and I’m already behind on being aspirational and/or functional.
Predictably, I once again started January on decidedly WTF footing. I, too, want more and better (or less and better), and yes, Random Enthusiastic Person On The Internet, I understand that only I can make that happen.
Most New Year’s resolution advice assumes you have quiet to reflect, sufficient attention to make good (enough) choices, and enough solid ground to stand on while doing all that.
I am not on solid ground. I’m dog paddling through whatever swamp-adjacent mucky fuckery all this is. As such, I’m not doing anything other than scanning my surroundings and wondering how long we all can keep this up before stress-testing floating debris to see if we can comfortably nap on it.
Many of us are operating with severely depleted attention, and we’re absolutely fried due to what feels like oversubscription to the world. When attention thins, decision-making degrades.
Last year, I said I wanted to pay attention to where my attention was going – real genius stuff until I tried and immediately forgot what I was doing. Attention is what allows you to evaluate options well, and without it, every choice feels loud and wrong. I hate loud. I hate wrong. I especially hate loud and wrong.
This unsettled, flayed feeling is apparently the emotional launchpad for Grand Goals Setting.
But, I DID set goals.
Last year.
Just for posterity, here they are:
Let my inner weirdo become my outer weirdo.
Find more wonderlands: big cushions, warm chairs, fireplaces, and someone patting the seat next to them like, “Come. Sit. Stay a while.”
Work the phrase “everything went tits up” into more conversations.
Be like my dog: long walks, bursts of speed toward nothing, naps in the sun, and flappies (scientific term) to clear my head.
Read more. Write more. Read better. Write better.
I used to tell stories here. Real ones. Small ones. Messy, absurd ones. Somewhere along the way, I got stuck in broad magician-off-the-Strip tellings. No more. Back to real ones, with all the tits-up moments.
Schedule my damn flu shot.
Play.
I am not going to tell you which of these I accomplished.
Ok, yes, I will. I got my flu shot.
So for the sake of rest and attention, I will recycle that list.
This space, whatever it is, remains open for oddness and wonderlands. And for madly gripping joy, especially because it may be a floating debris pile to nap on to take a break from all the mad dog paddling.
And if things go tits up as we tumble into our grocery cart corrals in the Trader Joe’s parking lot – well, maybe we can figure out how to use them as flotation devices.
Warning: This piece contains an unreasonable number of cheese references.
Permit me a wildly self-indulgent post. It is my birthday, and if a woman can’t spelunk into the gooey cavern of her own feelings on the anniversary of her arrival, then when can she?
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
I started this day as I do most days, forcing myself to wrestle with Mary Oliver.
For a while now, I’ve worked on carving out little havens for myself. Small sanctuaries filled with beautiful sounds and words and things to gaze upon and hold dear. I’ve tried to fill them with people, too. People who smile and cry, as needed. People who are an honor to stand with, or curl up next to, or double over in laughter with in the great messy queue of existence. And people who will, crucially, refrain from being grammar assholes over this entire paragraph.
And then I’ve worked on showing up in those havens, which is harder than you’d think. You’d think once you’ve carved out a space, you’d want to be in it, like a cat claiming a cardboard box. BUT NO. My instinct is to show up everywhere else first.
Those everywhere else spaces need people like me — people who are loud and unsoft in public. The spaces where people like me are asked to stand at the front and project their voices like a malfunctioning foghorn. The spaces where I need to show up (and shut up) so no one else has to be brave alone.
Those spaces can take your skin. Those spaces can be harsh and loud and brisk. I like none of those things.
Being unsoft in public isn’t easy. None of us is unsoft at all times. Even under-bridge trolls need an occasional snuggle and a nap. And I refuse to grow callouses. Callouses are for people who enjoy hiking or receiving constructive criticism, neither of which interests me.
But I go to the places I choose, and dwell among people I choose. Still, my unsoft places sometimes grow raw around the edges. Like a cheese that has been handled too enthusiastically at a village fête.
I want to be brave in this one wild and precious life, the kind of brave that requires ferocity and a willingness to occasionally be the cheese that stands alone. Sometimes I am the kind of brave that is also vulnerable. Different cheese, same position. But lots of people like cheese, I’ve learned. Somewhere out there are the people who love the exact cheese that is me.
I digress. I am also hungry for cheese.
Birthdays involve audits. Spiritual, emotional, sometimes literal, if you also store your things in creative locations and now want to use them to get your special birthday cookie at Crumbl. I use this day to ask myself: Am I who I want to be? Am I surrounded by marvelous, strong, brilliant, delightful people? Is the work mighty? Brave? Honest? (Is it occasionally funny, because bonus points for that.)
This past year has been…well, let’s say it has tested us all in ways that rattle our molars and make us long to burrow under blankets and just stay there for a good chunk of this wild and precious life.
But this is a new year. Every day can be a new year. This is why I wrestle with Mary Oliver and her profoundly, annoyingly inspirational poem.
I’m grateful for my people and our co-carved spaces, and the fact that I have the energy to carve them, and also for the baffling email from my insurance agency wishing me a happy birthday as if we’ve been through something together.
And I’m grateful for the privilege of being invited into some of your spaces.
Because at the end of the day, I hope to ease into another part of that poem: “Tell me, what else should I have done?” and know the answer is
Jackie Pick 