The illusion of control is shimmery and somewhere off in the distance, but there was a small period of my life when it felt within arms reach.
For every journal I owned I had a planner close beside it. I wasn’t the most studious student in school but carrying one around gave me confidence that I could be. They were synonymous with potential, and when paired with multicolored highlighters I was ready to take on the world one day at a time. The pattern was a familiar one. I’d enthusiastically mark it up at the start of a fresh calendar year or new job. I was hellbent on keeping up with it only to lose or stop using it all together within months.
Those close to me know I’m forgetful. A colleague joked I would lose my head if it wasn’t attached. It was especially bad when I was younger. I’d lose a brand new cell phone within a week of having it, a shopping bag would go missing before even making it home, any ring I’ve ever owned slipped off my finger and is likely now on someone else’s (my wedding ring is intentionally a smidge too tight in hopes it won’t budge). Perhaps my favorite example of my absent mind, my dad kept my Social Security card filed away for 18 years. When I moved out, he gave it to me pleading to keep it somewhere safe. Apparently I took that advice as “hide it somewhere so good, you won’t be able to find it again.” All my life he carefully held onto it. I had it in my possession for a year and a part of my identity vanishes. Good thing you’re allotted a certain number of replacements in a lifetime.
It wasn’t until I used a planner as more of a personal tool that our relationship became more consistent. It helped me remember. My method was simple: jot everything down with the reasoning that if I take notes and plan ahead then I’d be better equipped at life. It’s what adults do when they have their shit together. Or something like that.
So began my love of to do lists.
From mundane chores to weekend activities, I mapped out my days. The details would become more and more granular with each page, and, before I knew it, I was planning out a life that left little room for surprises.
When Jordan and I were in a stretch of long distance, I developed an obsession with itineraries. Every pitstop, restaurant, and tourist attraction would be planned well in advance. Granted, this is perfectly normal when you’re on vacation. However I would do this with cities we frequented.
The overplanning was robbing myself of the potential I was trying to grasp onto in the first place. I was missing out on the kind of magic that tends to show up when you least expect it to. The kind that catches you off guard and takes your breath away.
The perpetual rush of ticking boxes gave me more anxiety than joy. I was a slave to it. Of course it wasn’t the planners fault.
It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly I loosened my grip. Perhaps with age came experience to lean into the unknown. I can better appreciate the nuance and change in directions that life inevitably takes.
Maybe the tendencies of my laid back partner rubbed off on me (although it could’ve caused me to overcompensate in the beginning). Geography played a part. I adopted the slower living from the Carolinas and the chillness of the mountains of Northern California. Turns out when people around you aren’t in a rush, you tend to slow down too. Now especially with a job as an Event Planner, weighing out any logistics off the clock feels like work.
While watching the documentary 180 Degrees South, American rock climber and environmentalist Yvon Chouinard said “It’s not an adventure until something goes wrong. Otherwise it’s just a trip.”
Together Jordan and I have had our share of adventures. In our dozen years together we experienced missed flights, lost luggage, flat tires, traveling during a snowstorm, reservation-less camping trips during peak season, lost rental car keys, taking the wrong train from London to Scotland on the last day of our honeymoon, etc etc. The two of us have funny luck. Regardless of how much or how little is planned ahead something interesting always happens to us. We hang onto the fact that it’ll make for a good story. And sometimes Plan B or C ends up being way better.
A whole gambit of road bumps may have derailed me years ago, but I now catch myself smirking as I think “old Amanda would have crumbled and handled this so differently.”
Control doesn’t hold as much value for me as it used to.
By shifting expectations and remaining flexible, I’ve evolved. I gave up the tedious task of researching every restaurant or movie or book review and let my mood or gut do the decision making. I turn to the knowledge of friends or locals for suggestions when I’m somewhere unfamiliar. I avoid the temptation of looking up photos because I know seeing it in person for the first time will be way better. I jump into most weekends without knowing where they’ll take me. Between my current self and my easy-going partner our weekend conversations often go something like: “I don’t know, it’s up to you. I’m down for anything. How about we go for a drive and see where it takes us?” Some of the most memorable pit stops, meals, and films I’ve experienced came to be without having any expectations prior. I let life surprise me.
I’ve since stopped buying into planners (although the notes app and moleskins are a handy alternative when needed). With them came too many expectations. Whether I put them on myself or on other people, they usually ended up in disappointment. I rather go where the wind takes me without the rush of dates and time and a specific order of operations looming over me. There’s freedom in letting go. This isn’t to say, I gave up all control. I still enjoy a good list from time to time and my morning ritual is sacred to me. But they no longer serve as a metric for my value. There’s so much potential in between. Half the fun is in discovering what that potential is as the day unravels naturally.
In place of a detailed planner I keep a tattered up post it note that reads “Get a routine baggy enough to live in.” –Matt Haig.
The world is a lot softer that way.
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