I wake up each morning with a tiny referee and panel of judges at my bedside. Their job: file the day into one of two categories.
On a Good day, life flows out of me. I drown in ideas and responsibilities, revel in the distraction of friends, and find satisfaction in a cup of coffee. The day ends with all 10s from the panel and life’s first-place trophy.
On a Bad day, life flows into me. There might be a spurring event, but often there isn’t. The day begins in a downward spiral. Something is not right – there is a simple failure, then a more complex one. Ambition leaves as I convince myself success is something of the past. Whatever captured my heart the day before turns to dust. Ideas drip from the faucet directly into the drain. It sucks.
Looking at days agnostically is an attempt to unwind my own culture. This means thinking of them less as Good and Bad days, but Days. Often nothing outside of me is discrepant: the sun came up, the coffee was hot (and Ugandan), and my body worked the same.
Perhaps the good days aren’t good, they are expressive. And the bad days aren’t bad, rather I’m not handling them well. So, I tested the theory yesterday. It was a distinctly bad day for no other reason than it was a Tuesday. I felt myself flying from the sun’s gravity as it held me in place, cape rippling from the sheer force. At about 4 pm, I turned and flew through the damned thing. It worked, to an extent.
The agnostic approach suggests the day itself isn’t bad, rather I’m expecting different things than I’d hope. My ego screams that I know best while the entire rest of me pleads, telling me I don’t.
After I fire the panel of judges, I’m hiring an orchestra conductor. We’ll see how she does.
Thanks for taking a sip,