Let me read it to you...

​The ephemeral nostalgia of the holidays makes way for January with its regularly scheduled programming, its sub-zero temperatures. I hear a voice from my past echo in my head, “Party’s over, girl. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

Going back to work is an interesting adventure after a generous week off between Christmas and New Year’s. And I’m not talking about the new Gucci handbag Donna is carrying, the one she bought for herself, wrapped and tagged, “From: Your Secret Santa.”

I’m talking about the long list of emails, the incessant blinking green light on the desktop phone. I’m talking about the unfamiliar odor coming from the kitchen refrigerator because someone forgot to tend to their egg salad sandwich before scooting out the door on December 20th at 4:57pm.

I’m talking about the meetings no one could coordinate in December, now taking up all available squares of time this first week in January. It’s all the unrecorded transactions, unopened envelopes and the new employee who needs you to show her how to load a ream of paper into the copier.

Meanwhile, I’m not doing what I said I would. I had this great vision. Instead of wasting time on social media over coffee in the morning, I would read. All the books piled up next to the bed? I would actually read them. Just a little, every morning.

Not doing it.

And that plan I made to become a morning exerciser? That vow to just do something, anything in the gym each morning? Broken. Although, I’m sure wrestling the Christmas tree back into its box counts for something; surprisingly cardio.

I want to do better. But more than that, I want to feel like I’ve done enough, that I’m not always falling short. Life is fleeting and it sometimes seems time is running out on becoming the kind of person that sees reading or working out as easy, effortless, natural, a no-brainer, why wouldn’t I?

Not quite there yet, but it's ok.

And by saying, “It’s ok,” I’m not pacifying myself. I’ll still try, I’ll still hold the vision and contemplate the merits. I won’t give up the desire or pursuit, only the shame I might feel for being such a good novice, a slow adopter.

When I say, “It’s ok,” I mean, “Remember all the things you deserve a little applause for. Don’t forget those.” I mean, “You’re still breathing in and out, your heart still beats, and your failings make great stories. Isn’t that terrific?” I mean, “What you are lacking in integrity, you now have an opportunity to make up for in self-compassion.”

Let the ephemeral find its way onto your page. Write about what feels fleeting in your life. Ramble on about the impermanence of things, of time, of people, your thoughts. Notice what comes and goes while you are writing.