It’s January 1, 2014. Every year at this time we Snowbirds are on the road to our southern digs, so after a day’s travel, even on New Year’s Eve, we weary road-warriors hit the pillows early. (I missed the ball drop by about 2 1/2 hours.) In this mid-priced freeway-motel-with-breakfast (a waffle machine, oatmeal packets, yogurt, juice, sporadic fresh fruit, and traditionally lousy coffee), New Year’s Eve is just another night.
Most of us get to our destinations on January 1, which means New Year’s Day is actually moving-in day. One big whoop when we finally turn into the parking lot after driving a thousand miles over a few days, and that’s about as boisterous as it gets.
But that’s not to say I haven’t been thinking about the new year and what I expect to get from it. I don’t make resolutions any more. I took them so seriously at one time I’d even been known to write them down. A whole list. Ten was the magic number–even if I had to make things up. But after a while it didn’t matter, since I knew I wasn’t going to keep them anyway. Then it became a kind of a joke.
Lose 20 pounds? Fat chance.
Finally learn long division? Number 10 on my list, carry the five.
Take a class in Far Eastern philosophy? I’ll think about it. Or not.
So this year I’ve decided to evolve instead of resolve. I will leave the lists behind and grow into the best of me. Or the better of me. Or at least into someone who learned a little something along the way and got a little something out of it.
Oh, wait. I can’t. I feel a list coming on. Just a short one, but a list, nonetheless. (Old habits die hard. Sorry).
I will go on loving the people I love and try not to hurt them.
I will remember and keep fighting for the shadow people–the poor, the sick, the weak, the self-destructive, the unlucky.
I will ignore my real age and live the way I want to live with the time I have left.
I will study my surroundings and take lots of pictures.
And I will write.
I will write.
I will write.