For about three years now I’ve been telling people about my three year plan.

The details aren’t important; suffice to say that the three years are set to expire soon. I’ve accomplished what I’d hoped and I’ve arrived at the juncture where it’s time to formulate a new plan that will guide me forward from here.

The thing is, their wont be another plan.

So long as I can remember, my life has been defined by someone’s plan. Whether it was one of my own creation or one that had been laid out for me, there have always been goalposts marking out the road ahead of me, measuring my progress and defining my next heading. From my first steps to my first paycheck, the road to today was clearly defined and ready for the taking.

Now, as the clock strikes 28, I prepare for a whole new kind of challenge — a goal-free life.

It occurs to me that a plan can only take me so far. That I’m running out of things to plan for, and that those things that can be planned and measured are becoming less and less important to me. That, as I am dragged kicking and screaming towards adulthood, what really matters to me are those things that can’t be planned.

So as my three year plan passes gently into the night, I commit myself to the following goals: I will laugh more, I will listen to good music, I will spend as much time outdoors as possible, I will drink more wine, I will check my fears and insecurities at the door, I will do my best to surrender myself to life and embrace its current as it pushes and pulls me, to and fro.

Ironically, this won’t be easy. But it sounds like a good plan to me.