Making Peace with January

I was going to call this essay “Please, Shoot My Bul­let Jour­nal,” but then I got Covid and now I’m a Long-Hauler, which means I’m no longer con­ta­gious but have near­ly 20 symp­toms due to inflam­ma­tion, some, like fatigue, dizzi­ness, loss of appetite, and dif­fi­cul­ty walk­ing, migrat­ed from the orig­i­nal virus. Still with me? I promise, this is not a pity-party.

Journals

Back to the Bul­let Jour­nal. These became a big deal in 2016. Sud­den­ly every­one was buy­ing Leu­chit­turm 1917 dot-grid jour­nals and Pig­ma Micron pens, orga­niz­ing their busy lives with an old-school sys­tem devised by Ryder Car­roll. BuJo, to use the com­mon term, is part plan­ner, part diary, and com­plete­ly cus­tomiz­able, based on sim­ple sym­bols like cir­cles, dots, and squares, and unfin­ished tasks you migrate from one place to the next, yet you see progress. As a writer and sta­tionery junkie, I fell hard for Bul­let Journaling.

My sta­tionery craze dates to third grade when the insur­ance man came to our house. He kept his papers in a red vinyl fold­er I itched to steal. Years lat­er, after I became a pub­lished writer, I trooped to the Jan­u­ary 1987 meet­ing of my writ­ing group with my new DayRun­ner, and announced, “You must get one!” The oth­er mem­bers were 11 to 20 years old­er than me and up till then had been man­ag­ing their lives per­fect­ly fine. Yet I extolled the virtues of my amaz­ing orga­niz­er with enough inserts and charts to run Liechtenstein.

That day after the meet­ing, I learned my step­fa­ther, the man who raised me, had been sent home to die. There was no DayRun­ner insert to plan for the unknown weeks and months ahead.

In 2013, I turned to the Pas­sion Plan­ner, “a paper plan­ner to help focus on what real­ly mat­ters.” It had pages for 5‑year plan­ning, cre­ativ­i­ty, and room for dream­ing. I used Pas­sion Plan­ners, on and off, for two years, nev­er quite real­iz­ing my future. Next, I cre­at­ed my own plan­ner in a 3‑ring binder. Then I dropped into the Bul­let Jour­nal pit. I bought all the stuff — books, stick­ers, col­ored pens, a tem­plate so I could draw curly ban­ners. And that was my downfall.

I found myself look­ing at pic­tures of oth­er people’s beau­ti­ful jour­nal pages: flo­ral head­ers, art­ful Venn dia­grams — one per­son drew the books she’d read in a water­col­or book­case! I want­ed to do this, too, so bad­ly it made me unhap­py. Real­ly, my life isn’t that impor­tant. I hard­ly leave my house. As for cus­tomized cal­en­dars — menu sched­ules and lists of movies — how could I plan for the long year it took my broth­er-in-law to die, or last year when we learned my sis­ter has inop­er­a­ble can­cer? How could I pro­mote my two new 2021 nov­els — planned six months ahead of time — when my hus­band had an emer­gency quad bypass and two lung operations?

Each Jan­u­ary, I pull three books off my shelves: A Child’s Cal­en­dar: Poems by John Updike, illus­trat­ed by Tri­na Schart Hyman, Win­ter Poems, select­ed by Bar­bara Rogasky, illus­trat­ed by Tri­na Schart Hyman, and Hal Borland’s Book of Days. These books sit on the chest in our library, across from the water­fall dress­er dec­o­rat­ed for win­ter with hol­ly, pinecones, crow and buz­zard feath­ers under a tall glass dome, a gray fos­sil back­bone of an ancient whale, my love­ly Car­ol Endres rab­bits-in-the-snow framed print watch­ing over it all.

I sit in our library and read Updike’s words for “Jan­u­ary”:

The days are short,
The sun a spark,
Hung thin between,
The dark and dark.

I walk around inside Hyman’s illus­tra­tions and gor­geous bor­ders in Win­ter Poems, all fea­tur­ing her home, her neigh­bors, her pets, her fam­i­ly. I make peace with our most unloved month.

This year, Hal Borland’s Book of Days migrates upstairs with me to read dur­ing my after­noon rest and before bed. It’s a dai­ly jour­nal begin­ning Jan­u­ary 1, writ­ten from his farm in rur­al Con­necti­cut, meant to help him answer the ques­tions: Who am I? Where am I? What time is it? At 68, I ask those ques­tions, too. Borland’s entries mix mid-70s sci­ence with New Eng­land lore, his nat­ur­al obser­va­tions of the sea­sons with his own qui­et musings.

Jan­u­ary 6: Frost flow­ers fas­ci­nate me. They are relat­ed to frost ferns, those intri­cate pat­terns that formed on win­dow­panes before we slept in heat­ed bed­rooms. Frost ferns were indoor plants, cre­at­ed by the humid­i­ty in the room. Frost flow­ers are wildlings, out­door grows cre­at­ed by humid­i­ty in the starlight.

Ever since I bought this book for $10, new, in 1976, I’ve want­ed to be Hal Bor­land, to write about what I see and think about, not about what I did that day or should do tomor­row.  This feel­ing is strongest in Jan­u­ary. When I can walk bet­ter, I’ll go out­side to look for frost flow­ers made by starlight. When the strength comes back in my fin­gers, I’ll keep a real jour­nal and start answer­ing those questions.

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Melanie
3 years ago

I, too, am eas­i­ly seduced with new plan­ners. Per­haps I’ll try POETRY instead this year. ;0) Thanks for a love­ly essay. I wish you and yours good health in the com­ing year.….

candice ransom
Reply to  Melanie
3 years ago

Poet­ry is an excel­lent idea! A poem a week is a doable plan! No – wait! Don’t think in terms of “plan,” just write!

April Halprin Wayland
3 years ago

Oh, Can­dice ~ I’m so sor­ry your symp­toms have con­tin­ued. I have expe­ri­ence with recov­er­ing from a long-term ill­ness. The most impor­tant advice I got from a doc­tor was to stay in the moment and not project how long it would last.

What I real­ly want­ed, was a let­ter from the uni­verse telling me the exact date I would feel bet­ter. That let­ter nev­er came, but I did regain my strength, and I am grate­ful for good health dai­ly. Thank you for your hon­esty and for writ­ing so beautifully.

candice ransom
3 years ago

April: Oh, how I want a let­ter, too. Stay­ing in the moment – at this very moment in nation­al tur­moil – is hard, but I think you’re right. Per your doc­tor’s advice, sent my way by you, I’ll write my own let­ter and send it not just to myself, but to all who are sick with Covid, and sick at heart. Thanks for your good wishes.

Heidi Hammond
Heidi Hammond
3 years ago

Thank you for your jour­nal arti­cle. Wish­ing you all the best dur­ing your recovery.

Melanie
3 years ago

Also, have you read WINTERING: The Pow­er of Rest & Retreat In Dif­fi­cult Times by Katharine May? I just fin­ished it and found it Very Help­ful and a love­ly read, to boot.

Lois Bartholomew
3 years ago

A love­ly essay. Thank you. I hope you soon recov­er completely.

Cheri Crow
Cheri Crow
Reply to  Lois Bartholomew
3 years ago

Thank you all for such love­ly writ­ing, thoughts on plan­ner obses­sions (hap­py plan­ner for me), and inspi­ra­tion. I wish health and hap­pi­ness for you all.

Rae McDonald
3 years ago

Can­dice,
First, I am send­ing huge air­waves loaded with well­ness wish­es. And, I know that your embrace of your favorite and inspir­ing and calm­ing words and images will help you heal. Is that not the won­der­ful rea­son why we write, read, draw? To touch the human spir­it, to uplift, to gar­ner and share a smile or share a strength or an intro­spec­tion is the great strength and gift of humankind. Savor the pages, gath­er strength, and let your cre­ative well refill. We are with you.

margaretsmn
margaretsmn
3 years ago

I’m so glad this post came back to me. I read it again. And I am feel­ing that ten­sion of want­i­ng to be high­ly cre­ative in my note­book which can be so crip­pling. A haiku a day may be more my speed. Thanks for point­ing out how pre­cious moments are and how­ev­er we write about them is OK.