I read somewhere lately that we only have three months left to this decade. The realization was exciting and bittersweet.
This past ten years was the first decade that I can remember being entirely conscious. At its start, I was in freshman year of high school. Reading philosophy, learning parliamentary debate, learning about photography, exploring Toronto with my new high school friends.
While talking to an old friend whom I've known for almost exactly ten years, we mused on what the next ten years might look like for both of us. Neither of us imagined being in the same industry we're in now. We saw creative pursuits, career transitions, travel, and life transitions on the horizon.
Ten years from now seems like a foggy, nebulous place. But from the perspective of our younger selves in 2010, 2020 was just as distant. I remember writing a list of dreams for myself in the future at some point in high school. I don't remember exactly what was on the list — just that every item seemed damn near impossible to achieve.
As the years progressed, the dreams took form. Slowly at first, but then inevitably, milestones and checklists emerged from the fog. Bit by bit, each dream on its way to being achieved became less daunting, more obvious.
“It seems like everything that happened was supposed to happen," my friend remarked.
But did it? How much of what happened do we owe to chance and serendipity, and how much do we owe to deliberate planning?
It'd be easy to veer into nihilistic territory on this subject and to say that none of the plans we make today matter. It'd be almost as easy to depend entirely on plans and prescriptions, and to hold onto them for dear life. I think a third approach is the one I'll be taking, and it echos the spirit of “Strong opinions, weakly held." “Strong plans, not necessarily followed."
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