Shaping the days

This is my new un-pink diary. It’s simple, undated. Last night I wrote in all the dates and months for 2011.

This probably sounds like an old-fashioned thing to do, especially when I could’ve picked up a perfectly good one with the dates already printed. But writing out the year ahead gets me thinking about what May and June will be like, or how big my kids will be in October and December. It connects me to this vague new thing called ‘2011’ (even though I know I’ll keep dating things ‘2010’ well into March).

I had the same type of diary last year, except the smaller, thinner, grey linen one to the left in the photo. Initially, I bought it because of its grey linen cover – I liked the feel and look of it. The year before I’d had a gaudy mauve one, and felt almost ashamed each time I took it out. But the grey linen rewarded my touch each time I actually managed to retrieve it from the trap of my bag.

Last year it took me a while to fill in the dates. This time last year I was still in hospital. And even when I returned home, things were uncertain. I doubted whether I had any need for a diary. At a certain point, a few weeks in, something shifted. Whether it was my health, or simply my mood, I can’t say, but I committed to the year ahead by filling in the days of my diary – it took a week, rather than an evening, one of my first acts of will in 2010.

I’ve found that this year’s diary-dating carries with it some of that feeling: a weighty, tangible, and hopeful commitment to the year ahead. 

Last year, a subdued combination of a grey linen diary and blue ink suited my workmanly approach to getting on with life. This year, though, something new was in order, something more joyous, fresh, alive: a faded, almost pink cover - the hue of a petal about to fall - combined with a vivid green ivy of an ink. (The frailty of the petal, and the strength of the vine?)

Is this work worth the effort?

When I open my diary, each day starts with me - my writing, rather than an impersonal font. It's a small thing, but it's a small thing that makes a difference. My own hand-writing alternately taunts and reminds me to take up the challenge to shape my days, instead of leaving it up to an anonymous planner to do it for me.