Pursuit Of Colin Not Progress, Sheridan: In Perfection

Colin Sheridan: In pursuit of progress, not perfection — I Know Year Publish Write Want Book Two Who Them Will Don’t Read Them, To Will Who I Will Maybe A Next Nor

Sat, 28 Dec, 2024 - 01:00

By now, the waistbands have been adjusted and the family wills have been redrawn. Christmas, the great emotional equalizer, is over. If you’re reading this, congratulations, you have survived it. Anything that has been said or done in anger over the last few days should be forgiven, Hunter Biden style. You were not of sound mind, so don’t give yourself a hard time. The pressure of getting home, of buying gifts, of seeing people you hadn’t seen probably since the Christmas before, each one brings with it a trigger point of emotion that leaves you vulnerable. The ad-people don’t sell you that version of the holiday. They pitch the joyous journey, not the often-difficult destination.

Christmas came early in our house this year, but not in the way that you’d expect or hope. A family funeral meant a return to the homeplace, and a reckoning with childhood and nostalgia that was unexpected and emotional in a way that only these things can be. What is it about burials in winter? About decades of the rosary spoken into malfunctioning microphones. About seeing a girl you once held hands with in secondary school. About birds fluttering on bare trees. About dirt and the cold wet earth. About six pairs of shoulders carrying a wooden box, struggling to keep step. About meaningful nods across open graves to a fella you hadn’t seen in twenty years.

I’m not a religious person, but on occasions such as this, even I wonder who was the architect that took the time to put all of this together.

Who designed the seasons, the rituals, and the pubs that we sit in after, eating sandwiches and drinking tea, complimenting each other on how little we’ve aged since the last time, and how the weight suits us? It’s a funny thing, life. Especially in death. Christmas amplifies its magnificence and magnifies the meaning of the otherwise mundane, for better and worse.

Worry not. Christmas is over and we look forward. A new Garmin watch presents endless possibilities for the year ahead. A marathon in spring, perhaps? January will be thirty days of running and at least ten sea swims. No, twelve. Dips, not swims. Why have the ocean on your doorstep if you’re not going to avail of its redemptive qualities. Check in with me in a month and I’ll tell you the truth, I promise. I may not invest in one of those fluffy robes people sit and sip their coffee in, but I’m willing to give this a go. If I don’t look like the Happy Pear fellas by the first day of February, I’ll give up. They probably have a brother at home nobody knows about. The Unhappy Pear who eats crisps for dinner. It’s more likely that’ll be me, but I’m going to try.

There are other things I want to be accountable for. I will write a book next year. Maybe two. I don’t know who will publish them, nor who will want to read them. But, if I’m fortunate enough to still be writing this column in twelve months I’ll use it to reflect on 150,000 words written that did not exist today. Most books are bad, right? What’s two more? Accountability is important, not just to other people of course, but ourselves. Personally, I’m caught between the mantra of “it’s what we do in the dark” and the desire to publicise my goals to increase motivation. It’s a delicate dance. I guess using a newspaper column to announce them is a definitive course of action. A recipe for failure, perhaps, but where’s the fun in always succeeding?

So, just to recap. That’s a month of running in January. A dozen sea swims. A PB in a spring marathon and write a couple of books. I know what you’re thinking. What happened to the quest for a single-digit golf handicap? Am I just giving up on the wristwatch modelling career? What about growing the perfect barista beard?

Just get your columns in on time, Sheridan, I hear my editor scream. Yes, there’s that, too. Be better at the basics. Strive for consistency and cut out the star gazing. It’s just — much and all as I wish I sometimes didn’t — I know myself, and with that knowledge comes the realisation that, if I don’t say these things aloud, none of them will ever happen.

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Each one of us is different, but I reckon we all spend these few days of pensive purgatory doing the same thing. Reflecting. Ruminating. Reorganising our minds into a direction we hope will better serve us next year.

A friend of mine goes to meetings and he often tells me in moments of self-flagellation that it’s about progress, not perfection. I like that. Progress, not perfection. I think if I achieve anything next year, I’d take that.

Jennifer Horgan: This Christmas, I want what a screen can never give me — the joy of looking at those I love