I’ve always thought it odd to think of a new year as some miraculous new beginning. It’s become such a landmark in global society, observed with revelry, reminiscing and resolutions. But I’ve always seen January 1 as just another day.

Last year I did make a few resolutions. Not to quit smoking or loose 10 pounds. Just priorities on which I wanted to improve my focus in the coming year. Looking back on them, I didn’t do so well.

So should I chuck the idea of resolutions since they seem nearly impossibly to maintain? I struggled with this question for several days. Yet I know from my studies in psychology that goal setting has positive effects. And what if one never attempted to improve themselves for fear of failure? That would make for one mediocre person.

Instead of writing down concrete, big-picture goals for 2010, I’m simply going to take a moment to recall the priorities in my life (top three to five) and try to remember that all the little things that weigh me down each day are little more than distractions. The commonly referenced example is placing the rocks in the jar first, then the pebbles, then the sand. If done in that order, the most of each will fit into the jar, because the pebbles fill the larger cracks between the rocks, and the sand fills the smallest spaces.

Yet I also hope to remember that I only have a certain amount of control over my own life. The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps. -Proverbs 16:9

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think that I don’t have any control over the course of my life. I plan my way. I try to do so to the best of my ability. I try to seek God’s will and follow it. But I’ve learned that sometimes his plan for my precise steps is quite different from my plan. Sometimes it’s the opposite. But that — quite literally — is life.

Praying for God to use our 2010 for his good and loving purpose.

“Who cares?”

I can just hear one of my writing professors from college saying that about my past couple of posts. He could tell all semester that I was writing surface-level stuff, but that I was capable of more.

And that’s one of the elements from matt, liz and madeline that inspired me. He isn’t embarrassed about disclosing his deepest emotions or most intimate memories to his hundreds of readers. I should be just as willing to sacrifice a little discomfort for the sake of… well, good writing, if nothing else.

So here I go.

My computer speakers are failing. The bass sounds muffled when the volume is at a decent level. However, they have been my source of music in the spare bedroom, where the treadmill is located. So for my mediocre run this evening, I pulled my clock radio off the night stand in my bedroom and used that.

Just a few moments ago, I went into my bedroom to start getting ready for some sleep. I set my phone on my night stand. There’s an empty space where my clock radio usually sits. And there’s a ring.

A toe ring. A friend gave it to me a while back. I wear it occasionally with sandals in the summer. It must have been sitting behind my clock radio for several months.

But — just for an instant — my subconscious thought it was a different ring.

Last summer, I took up running. Or was it a couple of summers ago now? I can’t remember. See the post I wrote a while back about the start of it all. Anyway, last summer I ran a 5k. This summer I began training for a half marathon. I didn’t begin the training program until about halfway through the summer, and I didn’t really have a specific race I was planning to run, but that’s what I was working toward.

I was progressing pretty well, and made it up to about seven miles. Then, during one run, my right ankle started hurting. After running for a while, you start to learn the difference between a “good hurt” (building muscle) and “bad hurt” (sprain, strain, etc.). This was a bad hurt. And it didn’t stop. I tried for a week or two to just run through it, but if anything, it was getting worse.

So I did what every average middle-class American would do — hopped on Google and tried to self-diagnose via the internet. My research informed me I suffered from a sprain, tendinitis, or a stress fracture. Given that it was not getting better, I couldn’t remember twisting it, and I was fairly addicted to running by this point, I paid a visit to my doctor. He zapped me with some x-rays, but my ankle bones looked strong as could be. Prescription: stop running. For a couple of weeks, at least. And if you have to do something, use an elliptical machine.

That was not what this girl wanted to hear. Elliptical machines are not the same as running. I dislike running on treadmills a lot. I dislike ellipticals exponentially more. First, running outside provides plenty of sensory stimulation. Machinery is boring. Plus, ellipticals do not work the same muscles as running, and they don’t get my heart rate up as high.

But, not having much choice, I obeyed. I didn’t go to the gym as religiously as I ran, but I put in an hour on that forsaken machine on a fairly regular basis. Yet my muscles complained that they weren’t getting enough use. They would ache and twitch when they didn’t get the run they were accustomed to. And soon I could feel them dissolving into oblivion.

Recently, I noticed that my ankle is finally feeling back to normal. I know that I am out of shape, but I figured I’d better get back to doing something about that. So this evening, I hopped on the treadmill. Sad, sad news. Just three miles (and two pauses) later, I called it quits.

I could blame it on the fact that I’d been drinking Diet Coke all day. Or on the furnace, which was busily pumping out warm air to maintain a 68 degree house. Or on my lovely treadmill scenery (view of the closet doors in my spare bedroom). But still. Seriously discouraging.

At least my ankle feels okay. Time to set a new goal, I guess.