Overwhelm from tasks, messages, and more is completely normal. It’s based on a fear that we can’t handle everything coming our way. That we’re going to fail at juggling all of these balls, and drop them, and be a failure. It’s a fear of inadequacy, that shows up as anxiety.
It’s not just a “fear” that we can’t handle everything coming our way. It’s the reality for me. I’m ambitious to a fault and I set myself up daily for far too much. As always, Babauta has the keys for pivoting away from the overwhelm, into the possibilities of progress.
2025? Inconceivable! Still, it’s time to settle on my yearly touch phrase for 2025.
SERENITY
In 2012 I began selecting a phrase or word to use as a guide. David Bourne pointed out there’s a word for that: Cynosure.
When I picked the phrase in 2012, I didn’t imagine it would become a yearly ritual. It required significant reading through my journals to realize I even had chosen cynosures for 2012 and 2015. Over the years I’ve used the following:
2012 – Will-power and self-possession 2015 – simplify 2017 – “A dream is just a dream. A goal is a plan and a deadline.” ~ unknown 2018 – hell yes! or, NO. 2019 – NO. 2020 – get less done 2021 – festina lente 2022 – choose wisely 2023 – choose today 2024 – HUMILITY
There are echoes. For example 2022’s is effectively a refinement of 2012’s. And there’s an over-arching story of simplification and increasing self-awareness. What more could I ask for?
Mostly I use these cynosures in my journaling. I generally end each entry by writing it, followed by memento mori. Here’s the end of 2024…
I’m obviously reminding myself of these ideas. I’m also preparing for my certain death. I will one day write a final journal entry, and it would be fitting to have “memento mori” be my final journaled words.
My choice for 2025 is meant to be aspirational. In some journal entries in December I was writing about themes I might seek more of in the new year; Tranquility, contentment, or perhaps gratitude? Serenity won out because I’d like to maintain my serenity, at all times. Even when active. Even in the midst of chaos.
If I want to recall peace, serenity, pleasure, I think of myself on those lazy summer afternoons, with my chair tipped back against the wall, the book on my lap, and the pages softly turning. There may have been, at certain times in my life, higher pitches of ecstasy, vast moments of relief and triumph, but for quiet, peaceful happiness, there has never been anything to compare with it.
The third reason is that looking at new things, even if they’re just new streetcorners or deer trails, helps me recover a certain uncomplicated way of looking at things that used to be automatic when I was a kid.
Just as I read this, it occurred to me that a big part of the “magic” of my experience with Art du Déplacement (aka parkour) came from the effect that Cain is describing. I’ve always felt that when I decide to “just go out” and try to train, there was always some component of magic missing. By myself, it always felt simply as if I was slogging away at “exercise.” When I’m invited by others to join them, quite often somewhere I’ve not previously been, there’s a lot of “looking at new things” that happens automatically. Randonautica (click through to Cain’s article) is clearly one way to force that novelty upon oneself.
Because sometimes I experience small periods of blissful serenity. I’d particularly like to be able to go there on a more regular basis. It seems to me that spending about 10 days doing nothing but meditating in silence would be a delightfully mind-altering experience.
I’m a process maniac. I have automation that feeds me links to my historical blog posts. This one from three years ago was something I really needed to reread (and was therefore very glad I was given the nudge to do so.)
The most prominent quality of this state of presence is the quiet that comes over the outside world. You can still hear the city noise and traffic, but the loudest thing has gone silent, which is your normal mental commentary.
Sometimes I manage to bring myself to the present moment.
Sometimes a feeling of serenity appears.
Sometimes I notice I’m staring at the horizon with a benevolent feeling suffusing my existence.
It happens too rarely.
Each time it does, in the subsequent moments—as I’m dragged down from that brief enlightenment by my personal zombie horde of thoughts—I’m left only with a echo…
