Never Trust a Mug

and other secrets of success.

I’ve never been a fan of that whole New Year’s thing. It always looks cute in movies — like in When Harry Met Sally, when Harry sprints across Manhattan, bursts into the party, and asks Sally to spend the rest of her life with him.

But in practice, it always falls flat.

The bar is crowded, the prix fixe overpriced. Times Square is freezing and you need to pee. The confetti takes forever to vacuum and appears underfoot for weeks to come.

Or, if you’re like me, you stay home with snacks, waiting for existential dread to descend along with the mirrored ball.

It is always on time.

This year felt especially brutal. I didn’t want to write. I didn’t want to purchase any form of calendar. I didn’t want to ruminate on goals, S.M.A.R.T., stretch, or otherwise.

The best way to spend New Year’s might be by watching this one.

As I’m clearly a big fan of resolutions, I’ve long eschewed them in favor of a New Year’s word — a concise morsel to meditate on in the seasons to come. Last year’s choice was “collective.” The previous year was “answer,” and the one before it was “enough.”

This year, I’ve chosen “success.”

I don’t mean this in a “seize the world” type way. It’s a rather ironic selection, as success may very well be the concept I most struggled with in 2022.

Is it a place? An accomplishment? A feeling? A tangible achievement? A line on a resume? A reward?

Or can it be, as I’d posit, something quieter? Something more personal. The act of getting up and doing the thing. Improving, or not. Accepting what cannot be changed. Persevering. Staying true to one’s values. Being steadfast or funny or kind.

I’ve always been partial to the Emersonian interpretation, as plastered on many an inspirational item:

“To laugh often and love much; to win the respect of intelligent persons and the affection of children; to earn the approbation of honest citizens and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to give of one’s self; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to have played and laughed with enthusiasm and sung with exultation; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived—this is to have succeeded.”

As it turns out, this quote may not only be misattributed to Emerson. It may not have been written that way, at all.

In all likelihood, it’s a variation on a 1904 poem penned by Bessie Anderson Stanley, which was the winning entry in a competition offered by Brown Book Magazine: “What is the definition of success?” Her answer, which took home the grand prize of $250 and is now inscribed on her headstone, read as such:

“He achieved success who has lived well, laughed often, and loved much;
Who has gained the respect of intelligent men and the love of little children;
Who has filled his niche and accomplished his task;
Who has never lacked appreciation of Earth's beauty or failed to express it;
Who has left the world better than he found it,
Whether by an improved poppy, a perfect poem, or a rescued soul;
Who has always looked for the best in others and given them the best he had;
Whose life was an inspiration;
Whose memory a benediction.”

To make matters even more confusing, both forms of this quote — and other versions, too — have been incorrectly attributed to Robert Louis Stevenson.

I think what we can take away from this is not only to never, ever trust sources as cited on magnets or mugs. Nor that all writing may be subject to endless paraphrasing, like a giant game of telephone.

Indeed, such misattributions may just be the greatest meditation on success. In the end, it’s not so much about the name, the credit, the individual, or even the work itself, but rather the feeling that is left behind. The needle moved, ever so slightly, in a more favorable direction.

But I’ll report back next year.

Happy New Year, friends. Wishing you all the best (and much success) in 2023.

It’s a good quote, anyway.

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring The Pasta Tarot by Jeff Petriello and Rob Truglia, with illustrations by Lindsay Mound

I have this friend who has a very cushy job. It’s not easy, per se — certainly not the kind of gig where one could browse the internet or read paperbacks on the sly — but the pay is generous, the hours relatively short and predictable, and the perks are plenty.

In the words of Miranda Priestly, “A lot of people would kill for that job.”

But my friend absolutely hates it.

“I don’t hate it. That much,” she counters. “I just don’t like it.”

Her main complaints are that it goes against her personality and that it doesn’t contribute to society in any meaningful way. But she recognizes the privileges of the position and is grateful to be employed. And other jobs are unknown, uncertain. So she stays.

And stays. And stays.

It’s no surprise when the Eight of Cups makes repeat appearances whenever she asks for a reading.

Those brusque little pamphlets that come with tarot decks often describe this card as being about “leaving,” “abandonment,” or “change.” And on the surface, this may be true. But if you look a little deeper, this is a card about transitions.

The Eight of Cups is about making difficult or not-so-obvious choices. Saying “no” to something to make room for your greater “yes.” Leaving behind the well-trodden path for one that is more mysterious.

Surely we all know someone — or have been that someone — who remains in a place long after it no longer serves them. Sometimes we call it golden handcuffs. Or choosing the devil you know (vs. the devil you don’t). Sometimes we deem it commitment. Or paying one’s dues. Or sticking with something. Or playing it safe.

Whatever it is, the Eight of Cups isn’t having it.

This card is not so much about quitting as it is about choosing. Exploring. Considering all possibilities. Keeping an open mind.

In the iconic image as rendered by Pamela Colman Smith, a figure turns away from eight upright cups, which appear to be full. A mountain looms in the distance, while the moon gives some serious side-eye.

The scene suggests that leaving can be challenging. Pursuing the unknown can feel akin to scaling a mountain. But how else will you ever know what’s on the other side?

This card asks that we look to the horizon. Browse job listings. Sign up for a class. Tour a new city. Make a Pinterest board. Download a dating app.

In some cases, it also suggests that we heed the red flags, put our foot down, hand in our resignation, or walk out the door.

Sometimes we may have very good reasons for staying a course. There is no judgment to be found in taking care of business. Nor in doing what must be done. Only you know what’s best for you and your life. The Eight of Cups asks only that when it comes to the laundry list of things to do and people to please, you remember to include yourself.

When you come to a crosswalk, this card bids you to look in all directions — not only the one you most often tread. It’s hard to say no to a sure bet, just as it can be hard to turn down an item on clearance. But when you find yourself in such a circumstance, stop for a moment and ask yourself, “Does this serve me? Is this what I truly want?”

A New Year doesn’t have to mean a reinvention. It doesn’t even have to mean a new beginning. Sometimes, it’s simply another day. But as with all transitions, it does mean letting go of some things to make way for others.

The Eight of Cups is committed to the end game. And it urges you to consider a picture that is slightly wider than the one you’re seeing now. Perhaps there is more for you, more for all of us, than we currently allow ourselves to believe. Don’t sell yourself short.