Unquiet
Things

Every New Year’s Day, while social media floods with “new year, new you” declarations and ambitious resolution lists, I share my own little message – Bashō’s haiku: “Year after year / on the monkey’s face / a monkey’s face.” Perhaps it’s become my own kind of tradition, a cheeky little poke, a humble nudge, a reminder that my familiar face in the mirror greets me on January 1st, unchanged by the turning of the calendar.

I let go of the idea of resolutions long ago. Why make promises to become less – to lose weight, to take up less space, to need less? Instead, I set goals, always reaching for something more expansive – more understanding, more courage, more connection, more of myself. Usually just one meaningful intention for the year ahead. Not to change who I am, but to become more fully who I might be. Or at least, that’s what I’ve always told myself.

This year’s goal crystallized on January 2nd, emerging from a moment of pure exhaustion. I’d just survived two weeks of intense holiday people-ing with Yvan’s family, and my first-ever colonoscopy had just been rescheduled – after I’d already fasted for half the day. I was tired, hungry, and a bit cranky, if I’m being honest. As dinner time approached, I could feel myself sliding into my usual stress pattern: I’d either declare, “Popcorn for dinner!” or order tacos or something equally cheesy and greasy. It’s what I always did when overwhelmed. But then an interesting thought percolated: just because that’s what Sarah always had done, did she have to do it tonight? What if I challenged the monkey’s face? Instead, I threw some rice in the rice cooker and made a light veggie soup. It was infinitely more satisfying, undoubtedly better for my body, and I didn’t spend any extra money. A small victory–though maybe not as tasty.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my patterns lately, wondering where they all came from. They show up everywhere – in the particular way I need my morning coffee prepared (you don’t even want to know me if I run out of the right creamer), in how I arrange my days, in my quick “no” to spontaneous invitations. But are these patterns really protecting me, or have they just become comfortable ruts I’ve never bothered to question?

And what is it about uncertainty that feels so wobbly? When something disrupts my routines – even something as simple as having to settle for a slightly different cup of coffee – why does it ripple through my entire day like an earthquake? Is it really about the coffee, or is it about something deeper – some need for control that I’m only now starting to peek at?

I find myself wondering about all this scaffolding I’ve built around myself. Was it necessary once? Is it still? When did these supportive structures become constricting ones? Or have they always been both at once – offering security but demanding stillness in return?

Sometimes I catch myself counting the costs of being so set in my ways. How many connections have I missed because spontaneous invitations feel too daunting? How many opportunities have slipped by because they didn’t fit neatly into my established patterns? What would it feel like to say yes more often to the unexpected? Would it be as terrifying as I imagine?

But then the practical questions start nagging: how would I even begin to challenge these patterns? Which ones are truly essential to keeping me functioning, and which are just habits pretending to be needs? Is there a way to experiment without risking collapse? Could I start small – maybe accepting a slightly different morning schedule, or trying new approaches to familiar tasks? Would each small deviation really build tolerance for uncertainty, like gradually strengthening a muscle? Or would it just feel like constant, needless stress?

And what about authenticity? If I challenge these patterns, these reflexive resistances, am I betraying something essential about myself? Or am I perhaps discovering something more essential that’s been hiding behind all these careful routines?

Lately I’ve been staring at Bashō’s haiku differently. I used to see it as a comfort, a justification. But maybe I’ve mistaken my face for a monkey’s for too long.

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