The Moon's Resolutions

Value Fulfillment pt. I & Womanly Romanticism pt. II

Happy New Year, my love.

It’s January 1st, 2025 as I write this. I don’t believe I’ve ever spent a January 1st as well as I have this year, beneath my new quilt from sun up today to sun up tomorrow, feverish baby asleep in my side. We are sick. Lavie’s slept through the morning, afternoon, and evening.

This means I’ve had all day to organize all my dreams for the 2025th year of our lord between 5 different journals.

After a month of stewing and chewing on my desires for the future, I’ve whittled my wants to a list of 6.

6 pillars form the base of my soul. My joy rests on top of them, and if they are weak, it topples off. These are my 6 focuses for the year. Every haunt in my heart, dream or nightmare, sprouts from one of these indispensable values.

1. My love — harmony, romance, connection

2. My motherhood — the comfort and security of my daughter and I

3. Health — contentment, peace, attention to my physical existence

4. God — knowledge, wisdom, perspective, light

5. Writing — creative feasts and elixirs, purpose, satisfying puzzles

6. Celebration — cheer, romanticism, beauty, humility

In a different journal, the actionable everyday steps rattle down a page. This could probably resemble a regular sheet of resolutions.

• Gratitude journaling

• Consciously processing emotions — feel —> observe objectively —> frame thoughts

• Frequent stretching

• 8 hours of sleep

• etc.

But let me make a distinction: Those are not my goals. They are only tools to be plucked from the shed when they align with that day’s specific needs.

I don’t quantify my goals. Ideally, I workout twice a week, thread myself through a yoga flow before bed, and sleep 8 hours a night. You won’t find that on my list of New Year’s resolutions.

Gladly, I waver.

Some months, I barely make it to the gym and spend most my days walking with friends instead. Some weeks, I lose sleep as Lavie’s new teeth poke through her bubble pink gums.

The fickle nature of mortality invites me to assess my values not only at the beginning of the year, but each month, each week, each day. I don’t commit, (If you’ve been here long, you already know that.) because what I’m trying to attain can not fit onto my to do list.

To-do To-day

• wash whites + colors

• river walk trail with Autumn and Maddi (3:30 P.M.)

• have a happy & healthy marriage

• dinner w/ Kylie

• know God

• polish silverware

If I label all my tools as resolutions and quantify them the way advised in the ‘SMART Goals’ ideology,

— Workout 2X/week, put kitchen to bed every night, sleep 8 hours/night, study scriptures every morning, pray upon waking, at every meal, and before bed, buy decorations for every holiday, meal prep at the beginning of each week —

I will burn out like a snapped candle wick. Those are not my goals. They do not belong on my agenda. They can’t all fit, and they’re not meant to. Tools only work when they’re right for the job. Just because I have a screwdriver, hammer, Allen wrench, and power drill does not mean I should use each of them every single day.

My goals are to love my family and enjoy sharing a life with them, care for my body so that I may physically encounter my dreams, draw closer to my creator, treat myself to a creative life of writing, and celebrate the most special and minute moments with trinkets and treasures.

My relationship with each of those values shifts every day. They wax and wane for each other, taking precedent when one needs more care than the rest.

Of course.

We know this. We know the moon. We know the tides. We know the waves, the seasons, our own bodies. Creatives, women, mothers — we know this in our bones.

So here’s my plan for the New Year, subject to change, as always:

Look back at these scattered pages between these 5 journals (each week, each month, whenever the need arises), dig through my toolbox, and care for myself however I’m meant to at that moment. No resolutions.

A life. Care. Intention.

We’re starting off the new year with a cold. I’m not in the gym. I’m in bed all day and only wanting cinnamon toast. No worries. I’m spending extra time on my writing, because I’m enjoying it, because it suits.

Later in the year, I’ll be very focused on my health. I’m sure other cares will fall to the wayside, but that’s okay. If I’m preparing to get pregnant again, that will take the cake.

So many people around the world right now are writing about this shift in the calendar. I want to share this gentle approach with you and encourage you to root in your values rather than the tasks that may or may not help you honor them.

I think this month, I might write to you about each of my values, starting today with celebration.

If you read my last post, you might remember my blasé comment toward the end about the following week’s newsletter coming as a part II. I didn’t realize it would land on my husband’s birthday. That would have made a lovely day to write about celebration, but I was too busy kneading dough for his pitas and tzatziki dinner, wrapping gifts, and watching his hockey game. We’re here today, instead, at another perfect time as the whole world dwells on this occasion.

Happy New Year, my dear.

Before I unwrap this value, I have to share a realization. Last night, I set out to draft this post, but paused after the first paragraph to finally compose a new About page for Red Gingham. The funny thing is, what I wrote there is exactly what I need to write here.

In the prelude to this post, the one where I promised I’d write a part II, I mentioned I would explain why I’ve denied myself celebration in the past. For once, I’ll be succinct. I’ll just tell you what I wrote there:

“Essays and diaries here divulge the comedic, everyday disasters of young marriage, motherhood, and the universal quest to understand life — An argument ended with kissing, another sidelined plan, grappling with God each Wednesday afternoon.

They also celebrate the simple pleasures of a simple life — Sipping coffee beneath the summer quilt, the window nudged open to hear the magpies sing, a group of other mothers to walk the river trail with every week, and buttermilk syrup.”

I didn’t choose the route my mom wishes I would have. I didn’t stay in school, build a nice savings account, marry later in life, and start having kids once all my ducks were in a row.

I chose the dry trail of the bright eyed, young woman, wife, and mother. The beginning years are a whirlwind, a gamble, an investment into every area of life at once — home, marriage, children, school, and career. There’s little money to start, little idea about how to do any of it, but it’s glorious.

I get to spend my best years exploring the world with my husband and my kids. We will hopefully have 60+ years together. I’ll know their grandchildren. We’ll be empty nesters young, and those will be the days I crank out books, work in a publishing house, lasso the moon, whatever! For now, I balance it all on my palms, my forearms, and the crown of my head like a really fine waitress.

I didn’t have the mental, emotional, or financial capital to celebrate much until just recently. These first 3 years have largely lodged me into survival mode.

When I’m asked for insights on marriage, when I think a friend might need it, I tell them about the restaurant business. One night when I worked at the Dairy Queen in high school, a mom and pop burger shop opened up across the street.

Several times, the local owner, the handsome dad of the tall, lanky boy in my English class, couldn’t make ends meet. He came to my boss Tom for help.

Tom said something like, “The first three years are hell. They’re nearly impossible. You’re up all night, biting your nails, wondering if you’ll survive. If you can get through these first three years, you’re home free. You can go on forever.”

That’s marriage, I think. How much work do you have to put in those first three years? Learning to live together and find your groove. That’s motherhood. A baby is considered an infant until age 3. They’re completely dependent upon their caregivers for food, water, etc. That’s youth. My husband’s business had its second birthday this summer. We bought our first, little house last month. We’re only just finding our footing.

What a time.

I feel like I’m finally getting settled. I think the ducks are waddling into some neat formation, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I wouldn't recognize just how delightful, special, and worthy of celebration my life is without all that struggle.

Beneath mortgage, groceries, and gas, I’d like to allot some money for celebration. (Everything I’d like to spend it on is listed here!) I have gifts planned out for birthdays, Mother’s Day, and Christmas, months in advance, because I want to come up with something so fitting for each person I love. I want to make strawberries and cream crepes for breakfast every summer Sunday morning and go camping at our special spot in Idaho every July.

These things matter to me enough to be in my top 6 values because I believe celebration is the magic of life. I think physical momentoes are what we hold dear in our hearts and look back on with starry eyes when we shrivel.

I think my kids will relish in knowing it’s summer that first Sunday morning when I break out the crepe maker and whip homemade cream. I think it might be one of those things they talk about when I am wrinkled up so bad you can barely see my eyes, and for Christmas dinner, they finally gather together again from their corners of the world.

I want a beautiful life full of romance and reminiscing. I want the sweet feelings of hot tea and little candle flames scattered all throughout the house, their scents mingling in the doorframes. I think these small efforts can make the most humble, fragile life spectacular.

This is celebration. Every day is a holiday. I value this more than all but 5 things.

That’s all for now,

Xoxo

Ally Mia

P.S. Photos are, of course, from Pinterest. :-) Happy moodboarding!