Reflecting on my 2014, I am tempted to pat myself on the back:
I’ve lost almost twenty pounds.
I’ve written over twenty poems.
I’ve paid off student loans early.
Still, like the thick-headed child, wanna-be adult that I am,
I haven’t mastered the art of motivation.
Or the art of finding motivation.
Or the art of staying motivated.
I’ve done all these good things, but I’ve failed to turn them into good habits:
I barely have a gym routine.
I groan to wake up an hour earlier to write.
I still spend too much money on clothes.
“Doing good things” is temporary, whimsical, spontaneous.
“Having good habits” is permanent, determined, intentional.
I struggle turning my things into habits.
Motivation isn’t glorious;
nothing that truly makes a difference ever is.
It’s work. It’s daily work. It’s painful, daily work.
It’s setting the alarm an hour earlier.
It’s finding the most motivational song for the early alarm.
It’s pre-programming the coffee to go on when the alarm goes off.
But still,
despite the alarm, the song, the coffee,
there’s only one way I’m going to
wake up earlier:
Mary's One Hundred 