Anyhoo. 2011. I’m not one for resolutions. Every year I make (and promptly break) a resolution to worry less and live in the moment more, but that’s as far as it goes. I am, however, a huge fan of goals. Ones that are under my control. I firmly believe that we give ourselves power by recognising and naming our dreams and by describing the steps necessary to achieve them.
Making a list of goals for the coming year calms me and helps with the waves of angst that roll over with monotonous regularity. I’m frozen with panic and horror at the passage of time. I think ‘how have I achieved so little?’ and then I waste time in slivers and chunks on the internet, on spider solitaire, watching DVD box sets and drinking tea… Let alone all the time I ‘waste’ working and being a mother.
In Stephen Fry’s latest autobiography, he talks about going to Cambridge and promptly throwing himself into the theatre (and later, comedy) societies. He goes to precisely one lecture during his time at university and, despite stellar off-the-cuff performances in his exams, winds up with a 2-1. He is perfectly happy because he achieved his own goals. None of this namby-pamby hand wringing and ‘but I need to do this, too’. Okay, so I don’t have a brain like Mr Fry and I will never be as single-mindedly ambitious and focused, but I can be more so. Surely?