That was my thought when I first laid eyes on my 2012 diary in the store. I had been looking for the right one for a while, and almost missed it, hidden from view on the bottom shelf. The color wasn’t exactly an eye-catcher either. But it was surprisingly right.

If you have followed my stories from the start, you know that I’ve made a habit of choosing a diary of a color that will set the tone for my year to come. Two years ago, I chose red, and embarked on a risky, passionate and exciting journey (read the color of 2010). For 2011, I decided to go with shocking pink. Still hot, bright and daring. But more fun and less masochistic (read the color of 2011). That plan didn’t work out quite the way I wanted.

My “dark passenger” from the past has come back to weigh me down, in spite of it all. Professionally, physically and socially, 2011 has been a successful year. My business has taken off. I have fallen in love with yoga and managed to find a running regime that doesn’t tear a hole in my lung (8 months and counting…knock on wood). I have thoroughly enjoyed new and old friendships. Emotionally, however, it’s been tough. Anxiety attacks are back, and I have found myself, once again, falling into those deep black holes where neither joy nor hope exists. This backlash has to be stopped before it gets worse. I can do it. I will do it.

Which brings me back to that special color. I had been thinking I wanted to stick with pink or go back to red. Mainly for the sake of love, the mystery that still eludes me. So I was surprised, even a bit disappointed, to find myself falling for…well, beige. Or sand, latte, tan; whatever you prefer to call this:

Anyway, this is it. The color of 2012 is beige. A soothing and permissive non-color for my rebellious pink mind and passionate red heart to land on. Beige like the beaches in Kerala where I will be spending the last two weeks of February.

Beige for no more drama.

Here comes my heart, here comes my soul. Drenching you in red, sweet goo.
Now this meal is ruined too.

This means I’m on a constant journey inside my head. Sometimes it’s a leisurely walk under sunny skies. Sometimes a challenging adventure. True, some of my so-called adventures would probably underwhelm you. Things that others never think twice about might take all of my willpower to overcome or achieve.

On that note, this week I went back to my yoga classes after two weeks of absence. Sickness and travel had kept me away. Now, I was nervous. Not so much because I felt out of shape, but because I knew that they had started doing part of the class without instructions. I would have to perform the initial fifteen minutes of Surya Namaskar on my own, at my own pace. This stirred up a whole flock of butterflies in my stomach.

During the last few months, I had overcome my first anxieties and hesitations about doing yoga at all. I had even come to love it, realizing that it’s the effort that counts, not the result. (In other words, being unable to place my leg behind my head does not make me a failure.) However, now the challenges have been cranked up a notch. Like having to do things without someone telling me what to do. Naturally, it wasn’t a big deal, once I did it. And I knew beforehand that I would be just fine, which made it fairly easy to ignore the butterflies, take a few deep breaths and just do it.

That was a purely mental challenge. The next one was both physical and mental. And more difficult. And unexpected. And I panicked.

Sirsasana.

If you are a yoga devotee, you know that this is a headstand. Getting into position, I was probably a bit like a rabbit that just heard a twig break. Alert, anticipating disaster, but absolutely still and calm on the surface. I planted my forearms and head on the floor. Then with my butt pointing straight up, I started easing my feet closer to my head. Meanwhile, my whole being screamed silently: DON’T DO IT!

Of course I didn’t do it. I just sat back down, shook my head when the instructor asked if I wanted help, and stared at the floor in front of me until we moved on.

Every yoga class ends with a few minutes of relaxing flat on our backs. I’m usually a master at relaxation. Honestly, I can fall asleep wherever, whenever. This time I kept taking shallow breaths, staring at the ceiling, listening intensely to the incoherent thoughts of nothingness rushing through my head.

I hated this experience. But I love the challenge it places before me. I hated the sudden fear. But I love the opportunity it offers me, to be brave and conquer myself. Once again.

Delivering ideas and texts to my clients. A local school board, an icecream manufacturer, a company who makes medical diagnostic tools, just to mention a few. What else? I’d turned my budding business into an incorporated company. I’d spent a lazy vacation in Las Palmas, Gran Canaria. I’d started a philosophy dinner club with a few friends. I’d fallen in love with yoga. I’d met a man who made me laugh, feel good about myself, and hope for something more. (Until he vanished without a word.) I had been happy, sad, lazy, busy. I had worked, loved, run, fucked, dreamed and much more.

What I had not done, however, was conspire against a woman I hardly know, in order to steal a man I had no romantic or sexual interest in. That story existed only in her head. Apparently, it had been living inside her head for eight months, weighing heavily on her heart. What an utter waste of time.

When she finally vented her accusations, I was shocked. Insulted. Pissed off. Now, I only hope that she will find a way of loving him without attacking people who just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That she will get help to find inner peace and security.

I sincerely wish her well.

Making love.
Making a living.
Making a precious moment last.
Making an effort
Making mistakes
Making my humble dreams come true.

Life is always in the making.
I’m the Maker.
So are you.

Sometimes I think there’s a hole in my bag. No matter how much I put in, it still feels empty.

Then, sometimes I think I have a really ugly bag. I hate the sight of it and just want to exchange it for a prettier one.

Other times, I think it’s a plastic bag. Stick my head into it, and I might suffocate.

But most of the time, I just wish it had neat little compartments to keep stuff in order. Then I wouldn’t have to waste so much time looking for things in all the wrong places.

It’s one moment in time. One of many. So forget, don’t regret. Let your smile leap again.

And again.
And again.
And again.

Look outside.
Recognize how your thoughts, values and emotions are manifested in your interaction with others.

Look back.
Find the root of your values and behavior. Don’t get tangled up in the past. Don’t expect to find all answers. But the past will never leave you alone, so you might as well learn something from it.

Look ahead.
Decide what you want to change. Imagine how you might affect future generations by the way you think and act from now on.

Think and act accordingly. And talk about it.

You see, I believe we need rituals and symbols. As I once wrote, “I have no god, no religion”, but I have a strong belief in the power of love and the human mind. So I choose and create my own rituals and symbols. And for me, picking out a new diary towards the end of a year is a symbolic act of closure and evaluation, of vision and new beginnings.

Last year’s color was red. “Red for passion, courage, sex and fire. Red for love.” I could have added red for pain. Don’t get me wrong, I have no self-pity. I believe this stage was necessary in order to move forward. To break old, safe habits. To start saying yes. Taking risks. Exposing my true self. Sacrificing some to win more. This new habit of mine has been both painful and rewarding. And I’m ready to move on.

So, yesterday I bought a pink diary. Shocking pink, in the words of the fashion designer Elsa Schiaparelli. I discovered her creative genius and inspiring attitude at the Musée de la mode et du textile in Paris, in 2004. Schiaparelli was a strong woman with a mind of her own. She challenged old aesthetic truths, experimented with fabrics, patterns and shapes, and was at least as much of an artist as a fashion designer.

I challenge the general image of success and happiness. Experiment with myself, both on a professional and on a personal level. In 2010, I quit my job and started my own business in order to start exploring my creative and intellectual needs and potential. I entered into a number of relationships which were all doomed from the very start, in order to acknowledge myself as a sexual being.

And on that note, I even challenge the division between professional and personal. Is it possible to be always professional, always personal? I think so, and I will continue to test that hypothesis next year. Like Schiaparelli, I want both worlds. I want to add value to the business and brands of my customers. But I also want artistic, intellectual and emotional growth for myself and for people around me.

The color of 2011 is shocking pink. Pink for creativity, kindness, curiosity and fearless energy. Pink for love.

*You can read “The color of 2010″ here, if you wish.