I take all the resolutions in confidence, no hope, on the first day of the New Year, on the porch watching the snow fall. If there’s no snow, I take them inside, by the mantelpiece, with tea. There’s a system to my madness; there are no wrong answers. If a resolution sticks, it stays, if it doesn’t, it simply fades away.
Oddly enough I make resolutions to fit in for the whole world by the end of the year. I write them down on colorful post-its and attach them to the back of my door. When the wind is strong I sit and wait to see which ones fall down, and which ones stay, and if by chance none of them fall down, I pick a few up and stick them to the fireplace, to sit and watch upon and see which ones’ adhesive gives out last. The rest I let go. I don’t pick or check the ones that fall down, thus allowing them to be vacuumed away the next day.
The ones that actually stay are the ones I pick and keep in my pocket, with the motive of checking them at regular intervals. Like, when I brush my teeth or when I undress before taking a bath. Before I sleep I set them on the bedside table beneath an ugly paperweight. I bid them goodnight sometimes, and sometimes ask for forgiveness if I’ve been neglecting them for too long. I examine them right before they switch off the lights in a movie theater and when I am tired of walking any more whilst my evening walk.
Some years are more difficult than the others, especially if I had a little too much to drink on New Year’s Eve and wrote something like,”do something good for what matters” or “get yourself recognized”, on a Post-it that didn’t fly away or fall off the fireplace wall. Those years are the worst.