If Mao Liked Pretty Pinterest Planners.

Most people I know nowadays rely various to-do list apps and online calendars, allowing them to keep their daily scheduling and planning contained on their phone. Their tasks, dates, deadlines and Big Goals for Someday are all held captive on the same 4-inch device that houses hundreds of attempts at a casual “no-effort” selfies, Seamless, and that weirdly-specific app our friend convinced us to download that has yet to be opened. This all provides a convenient privacy when getting things done in crowded, public situations; you might be laying out your plans to write the screenplay for the next How I Met Your Mother, but as far as the stranger next to you on the train is concerned, maybe you’re trying to beat your high score in some game or texting your ex. Whatever. They don’t know, don’t care.

For some reason, this socially-accepted “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” doesn’t apply to those who carry around sketchbooks and who scribble furiously into beat-up notebooks while waiting for the bus. I guess it’s safe to assume that I’m not playing myself in tic-tac-toe or writing some lusty forbidden love letter, so I must be “up to something.” Obviously.

“What you writing there?”

“Show me your drawing!”

“Are you taking notes on my wife?”

“Planning, huh. What are you, organized or something?”

And yes, I am planning. But you’re talking to someone for whom washing her bedsheets is an unpredictable adventure, so make your own call there.

The conspicuous drawing does start conversations, though, so I wasn’t overly surprised when, a few days ago, a woman spotted my bullet journal in a coffee shop and sat down to chat and to show me hers, which was filled with every organizer and calendar imaginable.

“I’ve got so many long term goals for 2018. They’re all on this page, in purple lettering. I’ll learn Italian!”

Vaguely intrigued, I asked her: “That’s exciting! So, what are you doing today to learn the language?”

Nodding enthusiastically, she explained: “Oh, well tomorrow, I’ll lay out some weekly plans.”

Something about her answer had irked me, somehow. But it wasn’t until I was coming up the subway steps an hour later that it hit me. I was suddenly so confounded that I stopped dead in the middle of the exit (Yes, I know, a huge breach of NYC etiquette) and said out loud, most gracefully: “Wait, what the fuck?”

Before you tell me off for my colourful language, I probably ought to explain.

We’re not going to go into specifics, but a year and a half ago, a Something Bad happened, and Masha ended up in a hospital. Like any sixteen year old, I was full of questions. Not about bloodwork or brain injury or anything of that nature, of course. In morning rounds, for weeks, I was obviously concerned with “Can I please have some coffee?” “I want to check my email!” and “In how many weeks should I tell my teachers I’ll be back?”

Every day, I’d get answers less satisfying than my friends claim vegan meat is: “We’ll see tomorrow.” “I’ll let you know in the evening.” “We can’t give you an answer today.”

One day, I finally absolutely lost it from impatience. A minute later, a man in a white coat sat me down, condescendingly put his hand on my shoulder and said to me: “I don’t think you understand. You want me to tell you when you’ll be sitting in your economics class.

“I’m trying to tell you I don’t know if I’ll let you stand up tomorrow. All I know about your future is that it comes one day at a time.””

 

I’m not a fan of saying words changed my life, but that one sentence truly did.

From that morning on, Masha (who probably liked 5-Year-Plans and little red planners as much as Mao) refocused the lens she used to see her future. I see “Today.” “Right now.” Usually a “Tomorrow,” but beyond that, who knows. I can tell you that today, at 5 PM, I’ll be writing, or doing Law homework. I can also tell you that “Next Month” pages in planners make me uncomfortable, no matter how much pretty lettering and how many stickers they’re decorated with.

I think the name of that woman I’d been talking to earlier was Elizabeth. Elizabeth wants to learn Italian. On New Year’s, Elizabeth drinks a glass of Champagne and pictures herself in Rome. On January 3rd, Elizabeth writes her goals into her Pretty Planner. On January 5th, Elizabeth watches Under the Tuscan Sun and goes to Eataly. In February, she downloads Duolingo. Maybe logs into it. In May, she sees a grandmother talking to a toddler in Italian and realizes she better hurry up with the “learning” thing. In December, Elizabeth watches To Rome With Love. With English subtitles. And tells herself she’s been busy. Maybe next year.

We've all seen enough photos of couples climbing mountains, watching Netflix together or, I don't know, going bungee jumping. They're usually tagged "Relationship Goals." No-one ever makes "Breakup Goals," and I guess that's a good thing - I'm sure we all assume that would imply a wild one-night three some with two guys named Ben and Jerry, and a photo isn't really necessary. I'd venture to say, however, that taking the time to Break Up Goals, is. 

I’ll never be able to overstate how grateful I am that I’m now able to live feeling more or less certain that there will be a day after tomorrow. I probably could fill out that “Year at a Glance,” and maybe I will.  I’m 18. I’m practically obligated to have an existential “What am I Doing With My Life” crisis atleast once a week. Having my future come in increments of 24 hours is more comforting to me. I certainly wouldn’t want to wake up and be Thirty. Or to have it be Next Month. Or even Next Week. But, I’ll take a tomorrow. That’s not so scary. Tomorrow’s just the day when I told myself I’d wash my socks. No big deal. I can take it.

I’ve had enough friends tell me that my refusal to plan far ahead implies a lack of faith in the future. I won’t go into it, but I’ll refer to a quote that hopped around the internet on MLK day:

Faith is Taking the First Step, Even When You Can't See The Rest of The Staircase

And, I’d venture to say that its most important message is to decide what that first step is, and to take it. Today. From the ground, you can’t raise your leg more than one step. Maybe two. I’m pretty flexible, after all. If you don’t take the first step, whether the rest of the staircase even EXISTS doesn’t really matter. You can’t reach it anyway.