There is a long winter ahead, and I’m fairly confident that I am not prepared for it. It’s not as though I think it’ll kill me, or even that it’ll make me especially affected, as the disorder goes, but I’m just not...all that stoked about it. I don’t snowboard, and I don’t think I would, even if I had the time and the money, and I have neither of those things to throw around all willy nilly. 

Really I ought to read that do it tomorrow book that Jack’s always going on about, maybe that’d give me some clarity on how I ought to spend my time and organize myself. Right now the notion of slicing off a few hours to go to shop work or forest work or really any work that isn’t work work, feels unrealistic and a bit wasteful, even though it isn’t, and being that busy would likely be good for me. 

But that’s beside the point that occurred to me to write about today, that Roby’s birthday feels like the new New Year’s holiday. I can orient myself much more cleanly around what I was doing the week after Roby was born than I can around, say, the second half of the tenth month. 

Combine this with Christmas taking on new meaning, and Lent taking on, really, any meaning at all, and my calendar is looking different this year than any before it.