Every year when we run out of days, I think this is the year I will resist the temptation to over-commit myself to various challenges, goals, restrictions, improvements, habits, races, days of meditation, dry Januaries, less cursing, more water, higher tolerance, lower expectations, and anything else that I may subsequently use to point out my failures in life.
Generally, the whipping is in full force by the third week of the new year and follows the five stages of grief in reverse order. I start with acceptance, followed by depression and bargaining, then a phase of anger where I'm sure the recommended daily intake of water is a conspiracy to get us to flush toilets more, and then finally denial. By February, I deny having made any resolutions at all.
I am aware of other uppity folk who say things like, "I don't need a specific date in order to work on self-improvement." Those savages. I don't know what media cave they grew up in where they were not constantly bombarded with the reality that they had room for improvement, anywhere and everywhere, from the tone of their abs to the tone of their relationships. Or maybe their parents just loved them as they were - a reckless parenting technique, of course.
It would behoove me to consider a resolution to not resolve, to finally address my addiction to achieving things, checking boxes. But then my life would have no purpose, my GPS watch would become moot, and my kidneys would shrivel and dry out.
I have come to realize there are two kinds of people: Those who get high when checking off to-do lists, and lazy, directionless folks who somehow function in life without the perpetual nagging of a reminder list, a calendar, or a brightly colored app that celebrates their outstanding abilities every time they reach a water goal for the day.
It appears my problem (being of the former) is that I have learned to self-actualize by doing and in a predictable annual rhythm, measurable by the data points in my color-coded planner. The furious checking of boxes (miles logged, minutes meditated) crescendos somewhere early in the year, and piddles out to intermittent drive-bys of the gym by November. By then, I've replaced former discipline with an interest in fudge recipes and artisan wrapping paper.
Every year. Without fail.
The being rather than doing phase is celebrated with a wardrobe of expandable lycra - the kind with a waistband that never threatens to shame one's fudge consumption.
As the last year wound itself down, I found myself reading a collection of poems about seasons and was met with the stark reminder that-being human and all - I am also of nature and thus seasonal. The less I do, the more seems to happen within me. While that can just be the laws of caloric intake, I am also reminded of Rumi: "And don't think the garden loses its ecstasy in winter. It's quiet, but the roots are down there riotous."
Maybe the resolutionaries of the world are merely embracing the transition of their own seasons. For some of us, January 1st marks the transition during which our own roots become riotous, so that we may unfurl our leaves in spring. Perhaps it is not that we should shun the burst of commitment and tools of adherence we covet this time of year, but that we should merely accept the rhythmic, cyclical ways of things - including our dedication.
So I've unpacked my markers, ordered my new planner, created a training template, sworn off sins and libations of all sorts, and refilled my geriatric vitamin organizer. I'll enjoy that while it lasts. Meanwhile, I've resolved to recognize the impermanence of any state and to revel in the being as much as the doing, regardless of how hydrated I am.