Good Intentions, Resolutions, and Resignations: Part 1.

I know I'm supposed to be making resolutions on all the ways I can improve myself and the world around me, but..I don't usually carry through on those things anyway, so, this year, I have resolved to resolve (as in 'clear up') the remaining expectations I have of myself, at the ripe old age of 67.

I am never going to learn to ride a bike. I missed my window of opportunity due to a broken leg when I was 8. By the time it healed, I was too embarrassed to admit I'd never learned and it quickly became one of those 'someday' things that kept getting put off. I no longer bounce when I fall. Bike-riding is now off the table.

In the same vein, I am probably never going to regain my youthful level of fitness. I may exercise under duress, but I am never going to willingly run or lift weights or play sports. Goodbye golf clubs, tennis rackets, exercise mats...No, thank you.

I am never going to complete even a tenth of the projects I have materials for.  Somehow, over the years,  I have convinced myself that I will draw, paint, embroider, weave, quilt, collage, bookbind, print, construct, sew, compile, photograph, or learn about any number of things. I am an excellent salesman when it comes to this sort of thing. Either that, or I am an extremely gullible consumer of my own fantasies. I am officially giving up on almost all these vain pretensions. Materials go to UpCycle. Efforts go toward accomplishing a chosen few of these aspirations.

I am never going to use one hundredth of the recipes I have lovingly copied from, or dog-eared in, my vast collection of cookbooks. Nor will my clipping file ever be converted to neat index cards in my gorgeous wooden file box. I will accept the fact that I will continue to read cookbooks till the day I die, but, unless I am inspired to actually make the dish immediately, it ain't gonna happen. Cookbooks shall become recreational reading and I am not compelled to save and file anything.

I am never going to have an orderly collection of photos. The trunkload of family pictures, past vacations, and (regrettably) unidentified people and places will remain as they are: an occasional afternoon saunter down memory lane, with a desultory sorting into envelopes labeled with the approximate year and location. I would love to HAVE all these converted to a neat row of photo books on the shelf, but I don't want to organize the photos enough to actually MAKE them.

In short, I'm copping out on New Year's resolutions this year in favor of a good strong dose of reality. This list is barely a teaspoon from that bottle: there's plenty more where that came from. However, you will note that none of my resignations involve writing. That I shall continue to do...and herewith, another sample:

Good Intentions

I am surely on the road to hell;

I recognize the paving.

In fact, I think

I own the truck

and all the equipment

required to resurface

this slippery and sloping

path to perdition.

I’ve been at it for a long, long time:

books I meant to read,

diet resolutions,  junk removal,

aborted dinner parties,

the poems never submitted,

the classes that I failed to take ..

the multiple colors of my misled life

coalescing in one great mosaic of regret,

with a purposeful double line

leading to the flames.

What Remains

After the hoopla,

the cards, and the lists and the shopping,

the anguish

of choosing gifts for all and sundry;

after the baking and parties and eggnog,

the cookies and candy and

the well-documented visits to Santa;

after tree and lights and music,

the midnight magic of a semi-darkened church

with its candles and carols and greetings;

after the perfect storm of people, paper, tape and tags

that we call Christmas

is finally done…

When the last child falls asleep,

sticky-mouthed and cranky

from too much of everything;

when the last airport shuttle has departed,

and the final car abandons the driveway;

when the guest room is empty,

and the boxes crushed,

and the last strand of ribbon

trails out of the trashcan;

when the tree lies, dry and exhausted,

at the curb for pickup,

its ornaments boxed and stored;

when normal comes back from its Christmas vacation…

What remains

is the memory of  a baby

and the promise and the hope He brings.

What remains,

even when the world returns to black and white

from the red/green/sparkly snow-globe of December,

What remains,

like a warm, sweet treasure in our hearts,

even in the depths of disappointment, 

discouragement, and dreary day-to-day,

What remains is this truth, this wonder, this blessing::

He is here, and dwells among us.

A Poem for Christmas

I honestly cannot remember if I ever posted this, but this week, when I heard the Canadian prime minister speaking to the Syrian refugees who had arrived in Canada, his words struck a familiar chord, and I looked up my poem from last year. Here it is:

Poem for Christmas

I know the story bits:

no room at the inn,

a stable, wandering kings and

a star to follow; shepherds, lights

in a dark sky;

history and prophecy,

an evil king--

angels, sheep,

cows, and donkeys.

Then, camels!! And that star

converging on a nothing

town like Bethlehem....

This is a Radio City Music Hall

extravaganza, missing only cute puppies and kittens.

Stories! Signs! Wonders!

And the icing on the cake--a baby!

Whoever wrote this knew how to grab an audience.

Drama ensues.

But what’s really going on? Nothing.

No saving, no miracle,

no lesson, no evidence

that this is anything but an ordinary child.

(The halos were painted in later.)

The only voice we hear is the angel

(the Voice of God, perhaps?)

and he says, “Fear not.”

The age-old voice

of parent gentling a child:

don’t be afraid. I’m here.

I’ll protect you. Fear

not. I have happy news;

better than ice cream,

better than candy.

I’m here and you’re safe.

You’re with me, and you’re home.

God with us.

Glory be.