Clean Slate Season

I remember November 30, 2008 like it was yesterday. It was just another manic Monday for most Americans, but not for me. My sister, Charrina, and I were on opposite ends of the Seattle metroplex but in the same predicament—both needing to move out. I was freshly divorced; her lease had expired. Two weary souls, one cardboard-boxed crossroads.

We ended up signing for an apartment sight unseen: Issaquah Highlands, J203. The first time I laid eyes on it was while lugging my stuff through the door. In the Great Room—ten by seventeen, overlooking the Issaquah Valley—we dropped a couch cushion with a grunt and flopped onto it, equal parts exhaustion and relief.

“For the amount of stress I’ve been through,” I grumbled, “I deserve a medal, an oversized check, maybe a parade.”
“My thoughts exactly,” she sighed.

That’s when I half-joked, “Who’s in charge of declaring holidays? Because I think I’ve earned one.”

A quick search later—no governing body, no red tape. A blank slate.

So I cleared my throat and made it official:

“Tomorrow is December 1st—the first day, of the first week, of the first month, of the first year of the rest of my life. A new holiday. Tabula Rasa Day.”

“Loosely translated,” I told her, “it means blank slate.”

“What do we do on TRD?” she asked.
“We toast with a Washington Apple shot, chase it with the cheapest domestic beer we can find, and make a Declaration of Independence—not a resolution.”

And that’s exactly what we did.

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Seventeen Years Later

Every December 1, I still start over on purpose.
Tabula Rasa Day isn’t about forgetting who I’ve been; it’s about voting again for who I’m becoming.

This year’s Declaration carries new ink:

I am a person who writes daily.
I am a man whose habits cast votes for love and health.

James Clear’s Atomic Habits has been my audiobook companion this fall, whispering reminders that change isn’t an overhaul—it’s a system of small, stacked wins. Make it visible. Make it easy. Make it fun. Make it satisfying.

Back in Washington now, the tradition feels grounded again. The same gray drizzle that once mirrored uncertainty now feels like renewal. The environment finally matches the mindset.

Because the slate may be clean, but the hands holding the chalk are wiser.

My Priorities Are:

1. Health
2. Family
3. Writing
4. Geocaching
5. Sports

Each priority is tied to each other. If I’m healthy, I can be around family longer, and be more present. If I prioritize family, the writing will be a reflection of that. My writing can inspire my Geocaching hobby that I view as more of a sport, and lastly, the sports teams I follow fervently lead me back to my health.

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Closing Reflection

Seventeen years ago, Tabula Rasa Day began as a joke shared between siblings—a shot, a beer, and a promise to start over. Somewhere along the way, it became something sacred. A reminder that clean slates aren’t found; they’re made.

This year’s declaration feels different—less about discipline, more about destiny.

I will have the words “Dulcius ex asperis” tattooed on my body by the end of 2026.
Translated from Latin, it means “Sweeter after difficulty.”

It’s more than ink. It’s proof. A promise etched in Latin that says every hardship I’ve endured has led to something worth savoring.

Because starting over isn’t just a ritual on December 1st anymore. It’s a way of living through December itself—through all its ghosts and its glitter. And if I’m lucky, that clean slate will carry me into a season where I’m not just coping with the past, but finally hoping for what’s ahead.