*first project finished of 2026 - all yarn sourced from* *The East Bay Depot for Creative Reuse*

Bad weather. Rain coming down like fistfuls of nails. No sense in leaving the house. Perfect weather for spending time in one’s own head.

I never make New Years resolutions. For one thing, if I desire to make a change there’s no need to wait about for January 1st. And for the second, I prefer the word aspirations, as while I do aspire to be a better person, I wouldn’t say I resolve to be one. But I have decided for the coming year to take my own advice, and remind myself of things I already know to be true.

I keep a cork board in my bedroom, and among the tacked up postcards from traveling friends and notices of upcoming appointments, there are various little observations which I find bear keeping in mind. For 2026 these are the ones I have selected as particularly worthy of remembrance:

- Artisan, not factory worker (or office drone). It is the hand, not the hammer (or the mouse)

- Prioritize the real above the imagined (Screens are fun, but they are not real)

Both of these might be combined to a single phrase: be present. But for me that was a little too condensed and nonspecific that it bore expansion: to think as an artisan, which is to say, to engage my labor in the creation of art, rather than product. And that labor is as much a matter of the mind as of the body.

I do wish to draw a distinction between what I mean as the real and what I consider the imagined. The first is a bit more easily defined. By ‘real’ I do not purely mean physical reality, or what might also be called ‘the default’ world. This is part of it, but only a part. Dwelling within one’s mind to explore novel and challenging ideas and to apply critical thinking to one’s observations and prior held beliefs can all be deeply enriching, and are no less real to the self even if they do not manifest in outwards results. Very few people who engage in meditation – or prayer – consider either as a waste of time and effort, or would discount the feelings and experiences they encounter thereof as inconsequential and not worthy of repeat. (Though if they do decide as much, then that of itself could be considered a worthwhile reward) It is always worth it, in my opinion, to become better acquainted with one’s self.

But couldn’t one argue there is a strong element of imagination to this? A designer who spends hours noting, sketching ideas, staring distractedly into the middle distance has prioritized imagination. Or let us fly even further into fancy: a city dweller who fantasizes a country retreat where people, such as themselves, can live in the dress and habit of the characters of fiction. The first variety of daydreamer is doing so for – presumably – professional reasons. Their idea will make money, gain prestige, accomplishment, the betterment of humankind, etcetera. Western society adores this species of navel gazer. Archimedes in the bath. Isaac Newton in an orchard. The podcast “Cautionary Tales” recently had episode about just this kind of seemingly unproductive genius, who dazzlingly emerges from clownish stupor armed with new insights that shatter all prior understanding.

The second type of dreamer is a rather less esteemed escapist, at best tolerated, at worst scorned. But I would not discount them. And in the case of the second it might make everyday life if not bearable, at the very least more enjoyable. James Thurber’s “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” is a wonderful example.

And besides there is already a rich ecosystem of people who live exactly as the city dweller imagines: the staff of Disneyland, colonial re-enactment villagers, Comicon attendees, etcetera. I sincerely doubt any of these would consider their time in costume as any less real or valuable than the lives of surgeons or of subway conductors, and which they very well may be in their ‘default’ lives. And while these activities may perhaps be sneered at as playing at make believe – especially for those who aren’t being paid to dress as Mickey Mouse – the participants make, and they believe.

At a personal level I am a strong advocate of play, and even on occasion of being absolutely and ridiculously silly. For what is meditation but engaging in play with one’s own mind? Which may partly explain why zen is so damn funny with its unanswerable questions and observations on the absurd. (some koans for the modern age: what kind of luck is it to have been injured by an ambulance? Is it at all a convenience to have been struck dead by a hearse? You receive an email, the subject heading reads “Urgent! Open immediately! VERY IMPORTANT! READ WITH ALL HASTE!” the body is but a single line: “please disregard the subject heading”) Fun is serious business, you see. If you’re not careful it can lead to religion. Play long enough at make believe and you can end up making belief.

I’m perfectly at home with this first kind of imagination, because it is so playful, and I do not believe that play is purely the realm of children. The over-reaction of every parent in River City with a set of pearls to clutch is precisely what makes that number such exceptionally good satire, fearful that children might grow up to be unserious horsing-aroundingers or a pack of indulgent tomfools - silly geese! - “never mind getting dandelions pulled, or the screen door patched, or the beefsteak pounded…” In adulthood, unstructured play, if not outright immoral, is still a distraction from more worthwhile pursuits. No one wants to be thought of as a member of such a lowly, irreverent, irrelevant, and no account class as the silly. And if you doubt me in this try calling up a neighbor who has heretofore respected you and ask if they want “to come over and play.”

Register their response.

If not for business, worship, or procreation then adults may gather for drinks, tennis, hot pot, or golf, and even on rare occasion purely to “hang out” - though these days the preferred term seems to be “networking.” But they do not gather to play. At least not in any way as could be adequately explained in polite company and where everyone’s clothes stayed on.

But my own view is the entire opposite. Despite not being an theme park employee, or a weekend re-enactor, or a cosplayer of any kind I ally myself to their defense. I am the silliest of silly geese flapping and honking till I find my flock. And if ever I receive an invitation from a fellow adult to please come over and play I will understand the point is purely to share in the delirium of being stupid together in the fellowship of idiocy. And if the word play is still too loaded a term for maturity, then fine, I will accept a request to just “hang out”.

Maybe we can hang out as ninjas. Or dinosaurs. Or as ninja dinosaurs.

So then there must be another kind of imagination of which I am declining to partake this year, or at least reduce my own involvement. This is the imagination of the trivial, the kind of anxious fantasy that is at best junk food, and at worst a self-inflicted psychosis, besides also being a complete squandering of time, effort, and of self-worth. What would my life have been like had I accepted that job offer? Yesterday the handsome barista smiled at me, and today I don’t seem to exist. What on earth could I have done wrong? Now just look at all these well dressed, articulate people on Instagram, with their poreless complexions, flawless diction, and corporate sponsorships from organic and socially ethical brands. They’ve got it all figured out over there. What can I do to gain their attention, if not become one of them myself?

That’s the kind of imagination I am reminding myself to avoid this year. I am sidestepping any and all of the innumerable ‘if only’s that are out there. If only I had more money, if only I had more time – to name two of the most popular – and also if only I had those skills, if only I were more aesthetically pleasing, had a nicer jawline, better posture, etcetera. No. I am declining to participate in self-pity. I can’t say I won’t do it all, it’s hard to avoid the self-indulgence of ‘why oh why’ for whatever reason – love, longing, lust, or lucre – and screens are still fun, as ice cream is delicious. But it shouldn’t be mistaken for nourishment.

Obviously I’m not swearing off either screens or daydreams. I have a smartphone. I keep an Instagram page and a blog. I go to YouTube for ideas and diversion. I adore watching classic movies and tv shows in foreign languages while I knit. I don’t just stitch, or reach for a book, or bake bread from scratch or make quacking noises whenever at a lack of something to do. But I’m going to make more of an effort to go to a resource besides a screen the next time I feel myself in need of filling time, those vacant minutes when I could perhaps just people watch, or try to remember the words to a song, or be at peace with myself, or perhaps just quack, quack quack…

And I’m not going to dwell on how my life might be now had I gone through with that visa, or what the handsome barista will be up to tonight as the cold rain lashes at my window. Nor am I participating in the further imagination of projects which have yet to enter reality, despite a long intellectual gestation. I am not going to dwell on an outfit I haven’t made, the project I abandoned because it was no longer fun, or the one I put on hold because I didn’t have a particular skill. “If only I knew how to sew a welt pocket…” (You see? Those ‘if only’s. They crop up everywhere.)

Or for a larger and more personally instructive example, in my twenties I had the awful habit of describing books that I would someday write. This year I turn 42. I have written no books. I laugh at myself over that.

There is a strong tendency for those who know me to think that I consider this an admission of failure. I don’t. Or rather, now I don’t. These friends also - out of good natured concern - offer soothing words of comfort that there is still plenty of time to course correct, and so they try to help with suggestions “Oh but have you tried…’ But that is not engaging with the issue and discounts the point that I am trying to make. It’s not about knuckling down and writing that novel. It’s not about fixing the past to accord with a perceived, and more satisfying narrative and sense of self. It’s about how all that time that I said ‘someday’ I was engaged in a fantasy. I had relaxed into a sense of achievement and accomplishment, despite having done nothing at all to get there. I had placed a higher value on the imagined than the real. And in a way I have learned as much about myself for having not written a single book, as I might have for having followed through.

And yes, yes there is still time. And maybe I will try some other approaches. But forget the book. It’s not about the book. Please don’t write me about any book! (tips for writers, author interviews, lists of ten, etcetera) When I was a child I told plenty of people I wanted to be a zookeeper, yet no one has ever accosted me as an adult with inquiries of just when am I going to get serious about hoof stock enclosures and deworming solutions. Children are understood to be mutable, but past the age of twenty adults are presumed fixed, with youthful aspirations surrendered - if at all - only to the crushing weight of motherhood, mortgages, and maturity and not because in the course of age someone has simply become someone else. I am that someone else now. Not the someone I was at the age of 25. I would rather prioritize what is real. Tend my own acre. To think on and value the process and not the product.

Which, I think, may be the topic of another post, as this one has gone on for quite long enough. Enough time for one day to have spent inside one’s head, plus the weather’s improved. Time to get the dandelions pulled and the screen door patched and the beefsteak pounded and to hell with the handsome barista.

Time to make, to do, and then to make do,

~C

2026

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