The Gentle Art of Personhood

I'm still getting the hang of it.

A friend called with a question.

“Did everything used to take this long?”

I knew exactly what she meant. Surely there was always laundry, cooking, appointments, to-dos. But where I once flitted from point to point, like the Michael Phelps of thankless tasks, they now threatened to consume me. Projects seem to take forever. Days seem to fly by. Inbox zero feels as mythical as a unicorn. (And not nearly as fun to seek.)

“Do you sometimes struggle with being a person?” I asked my spouse, who is the kind of person who files taxes in early January and always arrives exactly on time.

He thought for a second. “No, I don’t.”

This was patently untrue.

“I mean, do you ever have days where you just can’t rally?”

“Oh, of course, everyone has those. I’d actually like to meet someone who doesn’t.”

And yet. Many are the times I find myself gazing at someone else wondering, “How do they keep it together? How do they get it all done?” When I’ve been fortunate enough to glimpse the answer, it’s been some version of: They don’t. They aren’t. They have help (or other resources). Always, there is some angle you cannot see.

In the event that you, too, sometimes find yourself struggling to show up or keep up, you are not alone. There are days when personhood feels like too much. There I’ll be, riding the subway or shopping for groceries when I’m flooded with the awareness that I am a glorified ape in activewear. I glance around at all the human constructs — trends and ads and phones and nine-to-fives — and it seems like a fever dream.

Suddenly, going through the motions feels ridiculous. Hilarious. Farcical, even. Look at us, running around this spinning orb, always in search of validation and free shipping. Surely the joke is on us.

*

In my twenties, I worked as an executive assistant, where my boss — a highly respected businessperson some thirty years my senior — asked for my input on everything from insurance claims to high level negotiations to interpersonal issues to fashion purchases.

Up until that point, I’d expected to one day pass through some golden archway of adulthood, where the skills and knowledge that once eluded me would descend upon my wisened form. But as I helped a literal titan of industry plan a child’s birthday party or write a speech or troubleshoot a printer, I realized such a day would never come. If this person spent half their time winging it, surely, we all did.

The emperor had no clothes. Santa wasn’t real. The adults had been lying. Worst of all, I was now one of them.

*

What does it mean to seize the day?

The question floated into my mind while on a run.

Carpe diem. I’ve always understood it in this very eat-the-frog, capitalist productivity sort of way. Seizing the day meant waking before dawn, getting a jump on facing — and tackling — whatever stood between us and greatness.

But if seize means “take hold of,” might there be countless ways to do that? Like, say, hugging a loved one or enjoying a sunset or feeling grass beneath your feet or savoring something delicious. Might seize mean enjoy the crap out of? Be present for? Commit to memory? Make it count in a way that matters to you?

After these past six months of grief and change and not-quite-carpe-ing the diem, I spent June easing my way back into various habits. Running, after six months off. My first in-person yoga class in years. Quality time with friends. Reading — and writing — fiction.

Along the way, I’ve developed a few new practices. While I’ve personally found them helpful, this exercise is less about recommendation and more about offering a peek into what personhood looks like for me, right now. (If you have any practices or habits that work for you, I’d love to hear them.)

What the mug said.

1. Make friends with the calendar.

I realize this is the duh heard round the world, but calendars are actually quite useful. Of course, I’ve used one for as long as I can remember, to keep track of meetings and appointments and deadlines. But until recently — like, this month — I didn’t employ them as a tool to manage and protect my own sweet time.

The calendar has always been a place where I managed when and how to show up for everybody else, while my own projects and interests got slotted in wherever there was time. (There wasn’t.) I operated under the assumption that one day, the time would magically…make itself. (It didn’t.)

Now, I schedule little non-negotiable blocks for the things that too easily fall by the wayside — i.e. to work on my novel — and treat them as I would any other obligation. It’s as simple as it gets. But the shift it has brought, of taking my work and needs seriously, is nothing short of profound.

I am 40 going on 4.

2. Create a Kindergarten Self-Care Chart.

My second tool is also technically a calendar, but this one appeals to my inner child. I call it my Kindergarten Self-Care Chart, and it’s not unlike the sticker charts one might make to keep track of things like potty training and chores.

I use a blank, paper calendar and colored dot stickers, which I code according to whatever I’d like to incorporate into my life at the time. (These are things not tied to my livelihood, like meditation, reading, different forms of movement, personal projects, etc.) The goal is simply to do something each day. When I do, I get a sticker. It is wildly effective.

In a world full of data, I relish this tactile, analog approach. Despite sporting a watch that might be smarter than me and countless apps that promise to track my every breath, my Kindergarten Self-Care Chart allows for flexibility and gentleness. With apps, I tend to become competitive (with myself) to get MORE STEPS, ALL THE STEPS, NOT BREAK THE STREAK, etc. Here, I gently show up for myself, in small but meaningful ways.

I also love the visual it creates — by the end of the month, it’s a welcome reminder of how little things add up over time.

3. Curate a joyful feed.

A lot of people have recently shared that they’ve logged off Instagram or TikTok, for good. App deleted; account closed. While I applaud anyone doing whatever is best for their mental health, I’m not quite ready to make that move. But.

I have a second, secret handle where I only follow dog accounts and running accounts. (Two areas that bring me joy.) It allows me to scroll without the siren song of comparison. Even the targeted ads aren’t as irritating (or weird) as the rest of my online experience.

4. Simplify, simplify (and invite wonder).

This morning, I stood at the kitchen counter and ate a mandarin orange. It was cold and sweet and refreshing and perfect.

“Fruit!” I exclaimed, with enough fervor that my spouse shuffled into the room muttering, “Why are you standing here yelling about fruit?”

I know, it doesn’t get much simpler than this. (Cue my best Miranda Priestly voice: “Fruit and calendars. Groundbreaking.”) But that’s kind of the point.

Citrus? During summer? Groundbreaking.

When I was a kid, my friend and I would play this game called “Travelers to the Future.” (We could’ve workshopped the name a bit more, but we were eight.) The idea was to pretend we’d been beamed here from another era. We’d regard all the “modern” marvels we encountered — toilet! blender! bicycle! domesticated dog! — with awe and wonder, like a scene from Encino Man. But in a way, we were on to something.

It can be a profoundly moving exercise to pretend you are encountering something for the first time, or the last. A tree, a plane, a mandarin orange becomes more marvelous, more miraculous than the moment before.

I am oft reminded of the words of Henry David Thoreau (particularly when I’m scrolling, or wandering the aisles at Target):

“Our life is frittered away by detail. Simplify, simplify, simplify! I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand; instead of a million count half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your thumb-nail.”

I now understand that the heart of this sentiment is not about simplicity, but about luxury. We’ve equated luxury with status symbols, which can’t hold a candle to the likes of glimpsing fireflies or hearing lapping waves or stealing an afternoon nap.

True luxury is heeding a call, having a choice, creating the space to hear the whisper of your own voice.

Thoreau again:

“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.”

It is seizing the day — however you wish.

Like Walden Pond in NYC.

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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.

Rainbow Heart Tarot by Rachel Rosenkoetter

Maybe you’ve been waffling about which direction to take. Maybe you’ve been stalling on pressing send. Maybe you’ve been procrastinating on a project or endeavor that means a great deal to you. Whatever the case, the Magician has a message: This is your green light. It’s time to make your move.

The Magician is less about magic than it is about alchemy. How will we transmute our experiences? How will we turn the raw materials of our existence into art, beauty, or innovation? How will we take this challenge and use it to grow?

This week’s card carries a message that each of us is powerful. (Whether we know it or not.) What we are dealt is not always up to us. But we do have a say in how we play it.

The iconic Smith-Waite deck, with art by Pamela Colman Smith

The Magician holds one hand skyward, while the other points down toward the earth. As above, so below.

On the surface, it is a reminder of the ways that mind and matter are inextricably linked. It also tells us that true magic — not the abracadabra variety, but the miraculous course of connection and invention and discovery — lives at the crossroads of thought and action.

On the table, we see each of the four suits represented — cups (emotion); wands (passion); pentacles (resources); swords (thought). These are our tools, the most powerful in existence.

This card urges us to use everything at our disposal — our experiences, talents, desires, connections, even our setbacks and failures — as fuel for what comes next.

It can be all too easy to feel overwhelmed by the world around us. It can be too easy to discount our own power, to dismiss the impact that we can make. The Magician says otherwise.

We play a role in how we react, the ways we respond, what we create.

We are all magicians. Capable of spreading wonder. Capable of making change. Capable of shifting the course of this day, for ourselves and those around us.

So go. Pick up the phone. Open the door. Press send. Press publish. Vote. Write your heart out. Speak your mind.

Make it count. Because it does. More than you know.