A Month of Januarys
January is a misplaced month because it falls at the wrong time of year for us to start afresh. For most of us, the new year heralds a much-longed for turning point. It is the moment at which we begin all over again but with a renewed vigour, an unwavering determination and with the knowledge gained from the year before. In an age when convenient living has determined our lifestyles, for most of us, the new year’s resolution will be health-based, whether that is to exercise more or to eat a better diet. But when it comes to making those fundamental changes, January is no friend, indeed in my experience, January is very much a foe.
It is the month that lies in the heart of mid-winter, the time of year during which we humans are genetically programmed to hibernate and store energy. We might venture out for a walk if it’s sunny, but the merest frozen raindrop will send us scurrying back indoors to butter up a teacake. Personally, my new year starts in the spring, usually the Tuesday after Easter Monday. The longer daylight hours trick me into being proactive as the warmer weather tempts me outside. By April, I’m no longer craving casseroles, crumbles, and roast dinners as my palette begins to anticipate the lighter, fresher produce of summer. And without even noticing it, by mid-spring, I’m fulfilling all of the promises I made to myself after the excesses of Christmas. But January does have one redeeming feature; it gives us the opportunity to reflect, because like the two-faced Roman god after whom the month is named after, January has two viewpoints; one pointing the way forward and the other reminding us of where we have been.
As the saying goes, we learn from our mistakes, but we also learn from missed opportunities and wasted chances - those plans that didn’t come to fruition and the goals we lost focus on. I am the self-confessed queen of distraction and incompletion. When it comes to having the courage of my convictions, let’s just say it’s not courage that fails me but concentration. I had so many plans for 2023. It was going to be the year that I finally took hold of my life and emerge from it a more competent and polished version of myself; version 49.0. And yet despite the endless lists and soul-searching entries into my pristine wellness journal, nothing really came from 2023. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a disappointing year by any means, but it didn’t quite pan out the way I’d hoped.
It was very much a year of little moments. Before setting down to write this blog entry, I read through my Instagram posts from last year. What surprised me most is how infrequently and irregularly I posted. Scrolling through, I realised that the highlights of my year were discovering podcasts, the last episode of Endeavour, the bluebells at Kinclaven Woods and my display of tulips around the front door. There were of course walks along the coast, strolls through The Hermitage and Glencoe, but on the whole, it was a year of homegrown, wordless days.
Like most years, instead of making a new year’s resolution (because they always let me down) I chose a word that I hoped would inspire and ultimately determine my year. My word for 2023 was ‘create’ but it soon slipped away from my consciousness and was overshadowed by obligation, routine and predictability. I remember telling my husband that I was going to really focus on growing my Instagram account. I was going to devote more time to curating beautiful images and capturing, either through words or photography, the things that mattered most to me. But like every year that had gone before, whether it began with a promise or a word, diffidence took hold and steered me onto an aimless course.
It was a year of frustrating days. As the months rolled by, I became increasingly despondent about how little I had done and felt mocked by the promises I had boldly declared in my journal. Like every year that had gone before, my aim of achieving some level of self-acceptance was overshadowed by doubt and hindered by the belief that I could only ever truly accept a better version of myself. And so, once again, it became safer for me to put those unrealistic hopes to bed, get my head down, and just focus on the things I had to do. Because that’s the thing about routine and obligation, they leave little room for personal recriminations.
Those of you who have been following my blogs for a while will know that this is the first piece I have written for myself in three years. I could say that I stopped blogging because I was too busy writing for Scone Palace instead. That would be partly true. I started blogging for the palace in December 2021 and I absolutely loved it. The research required for each piece helped me to become a better guide. And whilst there isn’t a limit on creativity, there is a limit on the time it takes to turn it into something discernible. I had the ideas and I styled the pictures in my mind, but in truth, around the blogs and my days working at the palace, I just couldn’t see things through to their conclusions.
I will always do what needs to be done, but any time left over is absorbed in a haze of lethargy, indecision and a crippling lack of inclination. For me, and I am not proud of this, the average day is much shorter; I check out of it well before the sun has gone down. As 2023 reached autumn, I had become utterly disheartened. I was already looking back on the year and questioning my input and achievements. Why had I not fulfilled any of the promises I had made to myself? My word for the year had not been the call to action I had imagined and remained nothing more than a jumble of letters taped to the door of my fridge. I had lost sight of everything I had hoped for myself, again. And I realised, maybe I just needed more time. Maybe the leftover hours in between the days of work were not enough. And so, I decided to step away from my job, to focus on my writing and see where, if anywhere, it might lead.
As I sit here at my desk, overlooking the garden, the light is starting to fade. We are now approaching the last week of January, and although the year is still in its infancy, I can’t help but reflect on the year so far and anticipate the rest of the year to come. This inaugural month holds me captive. It is a month through which the same day is lived over and over again. Winter is a season that dictates the terms. It orchestrates my days and controls my thoughts. And although it may scupper my plans and hold me back, it’s okay, because with the spring comes new life, and the chance to start all over again.