A box was delivered this week, and I’ll just say: they’re beautiful.
It contained the Let’s Make Art Watercolor Calendar I ordered for the shop, and if you haven’t seen one yet, it’s beautiful. Flipping through it, it gave me an idea. Each month gets one page waiting for a picture. There’s no pretty lighthouse and no golden retriever in a pumpkin patch. The picture is ours to paint. Then you hang it up and live with it until the month turns over.
That’s the part that got me. We live with it.
The helpful part. I think.
There’s no eraser on a calendar. Sure, you could tear out January and try again, but then you don’t have a January. Whatever you paint on the first is what greets you every single morning when you check what day the trash goes out.
For a lot of people, that’s charming. For a perfectionist, it’s a thirty-day staring contest with your own mistakes.
I know, because I’m one of them. I’m the person who has redone a planner spread because my handwriting leaned. Who has bought a fresh notebook because the first page “didn’t come out right.” Who has looked at a blank page and thought, if I can’t do it perfectly, maybe I’ll do it later. Later is a very crowded place, my friends.
Why I’m doing it anyway
Here’s what I’ve figured out after a lot of years and a lot of paper: perfectionism looks like high standards, but most of the time it’s just fear in a nice outfit (that you won’t go out in). It doesn’t make the work better. It keeps the paint in the tube, slowing or, worse, halting progress.
This calendar doesn’t argue with that voice. It just sets the terms. One page. One shot. One month. You paint it, you hang it, you move on, because the first of the month is coming whether your sky turned out right or not. The deadline does the job your willpower won’t.
Maybe it’s the cure. More honestly, maybe it’s a support calendar. It’s the paper version of a good friend looking over your shoulder and saying, “It’s great. Leave it. Go have your coffee.”
How I plan to use mine
I’m a paper person, so of course I have a system. Here are my rules, and you’re welcome to borrow them:
Paint on a set day. The last weekend of the month, or the first morning of the new one.
One sitting. Whatever is on the page when I put the brush down is the page.
No fixing it on day three. No touch-ups or “just one more layer.” Maybe.
Look at it on purpose. Every day, I’ll find one thing I actually like about it. Some days that’ll be the color. Some days it’ll be that I showed up at all.
Write down what I let go. On the back of each page, one line: the thing I wanted to fix and didn’t. By December, that’s twelve small acts of letting it be.
At the end of the year, I’m laying all twelve pages out on the table together. I suspect the ones I fussed over least will be my favorites. That’s usually how it goes.
What paper keeps teaching me
The pages we love most are almost never perfect. They’re the planner with the coffee ring, the journal with the crossed-out plan, the notebook where the handwriting changes halfway through a bad week. Those pages tell the truth about a life, and they’re the ones we keep.
I’m betting the wobbly line I can’t stand on January 1st will be the thing I love by March. And if not? February gets a fresh page and another try. I think that’s the real gift of this calendar: you can’t redo a month, but a new one is always on its way.
Join the team!
This isn’t just a calendar anymore. It’s a sport; it lasts all year, and I’d love for you to join. Here’s how it works:
Paint your page. Grab a paint-your-own calendar and paint each month’s page in one sitting.
Show your work. On the first of every month, I’ll post my page right here on Substack, along with the one thing I wanted to fix and didn’t. I’m hoping you will share yours too.
Live with it. Hang it up and let it be for thirty days. We’ll check in mid-month to talk about how it’s going (and how hard it is not to touch it up).
Celebrate in December. At the end of the year, we lay all twelve pages out together and call it what it is: a year of showing up.
Let’s share our work each month. The smudge, the sky that went a little green, the tree that looks more like broccoli. We’ll be imperfect together, one month at a time.
I’ll share mine first. That’s only fair.
Kath
BINDER Magazine: For people who live life on paper.
The Let’s Make Art Watercolor Calendar is in the BINDER Shop now. It’s undated, so you can start whatever month you’re ready. Get yours at bindermag.shop.