I have been out of practice. Any and all practice of any kind. And practice is important. Without practice we have a snowball's chance at perfect.
Many of the things that have been most important—to my soul, my marriage, my parenting, my work, my everything—have become conspicuously absent.
These were habits of mine. I want these habits back because the force of them once shaped me into the me I recognize.
Have you ever sat in your car and turned the key only to find that the battery is dead? You always turn the key again. And again. And then again. There's this little noise, this clicking and whirring, an indefinite sound that—in my personification of all automobiles—I assume is a feeble yet determined effort to spark some life. A mechanical, "I can do it!" I find myself turning the key again because, well, that last time sounded a little more resolute.
The last few months have been like this, little sparks but too little.
What the car needs is a jump start.
For the next week and a half the calendar is cleared. There will be no alarms, only the sun shining through the window to wake me. No meetings or strategy sessions unless they include board games at the kitchen table with the kids. And no Netflix.
My only constraint is that I need to establish some constraints. Over the next week and a half it is my mission to intentionally form the habits that wrangle the rest of my time and priorities into rightness.