hmmm...intention, resolve, intent, decision, aim...nope, don't like those either.
By Alisha Giampola (Actor)
I'm getting started early thinking about my New Year's Resolutions. I'm doing this for several reasons. One is because I can't seem to stop craving hot chocolate on the daily and my teaching job involves being gifted around this time of year with great heaping pounds of candy and pastries, which I have to eat right away because, Christmas! So now of course I feel like a bloated carb factory and am thinking about how I'm going to think about working out again sometime soon.
But the other reason is that I really dislike the term "resolutions", and I think the reason why is because no one ever actually follows through on New Year's Resolutions, amirite? This is why gyms continue offering discounted first-month memberships well into March, and why I have probably 17 purse-sized planners that are only written in through the first week of February.
I was in the bookstore the other day and I flipped through a copy of The Artist's Way, mostly because I never have before. I have heard so many things about The Artist's Way. I have friends who loved it, are currently loving it, find it way too woo-woo and New Agey to ever get into it, and ones who couldn't get past week two. I know people who swear by it whose opinions I don't respect, and ones whose opinions I value who found it just as valuable.
Mostly, my attraction to the idea of spending 12 weeks intensely focusing on my personal creative voice is simple: I am easily distracted, and I must be reeled in constantly with boundaries, similar to a toddler or a very enthusiastic puppy. I like the idea of making myself write several pages of free-associations every morning and I definitely like the idea of forcing myself to do one thing every week that nurtures my creative instincts. So maybe I should do The Artist's Way, or maybe I should start journaling every morning and take myself on a solo date to something artistic every week and see how that moves me.
I have been struck recently, and I'm not sure what specific event instigated it, by a deep and urgent sense of the rapid passage of time. Of the mortality- if not of my life, most definately of my workday. My week. My year. My afternoon. I'm haunted by that classic image of the old year, represented by a frail white-bearded ancient being ushered out by a new glowing baby, crowned and beribboned in silk sashes. I'm suddenly seeing endings and beginnings all over the place. I am overwhelemed with the premonition that I'm probably going to wake up tomorrow and be forty-five. My most desperate wish is to somehow be able to be a kind of Renaissance Person. When I look back on this time of my life, I don't want to say "Oh, those were the 35 years I spent doing that one thing."