There's a rash of resolution posts and status updates and phone calls and e-mails making the rounds. I think it's great. All of us willing ourselves to do more and try harder in the name of newness.
I don't make New Year's resolutions, but I do applaud efforts from my sideline Barcalounger. I'll lean forward just enough to hand you a Dixie cup as you, a more motivated person, run by.
It's not that I don't care; I do, deeply. I make resolutions every night. Before my eyes close, I resolve to yell less, to read more, to be more sensitive to my children's needs, to be less judgmental, to be more honest, to be less impatient, to be a better fill-in-the-blank.
I do this to the point of self-shaming. Wanting my vices to roll away, becoming the wheels that lead me to success. Desperately hoping my weaknesses transform into strengths. Expecting rebirth, every morning, caterpillar to butterfly.
I could be a better everything. I could be a better friend. A better lover. A better mother. I could be a more patient daughter. I could approach parenting with more seriousness. I could. I could. I should. I should.
There is no end to the things I could be doing better. My body, my mind, my heart, my soul... frankly, all need some work.
But, honestly, these things are the things I love most about people. We are so wonderfully imperfect. And, even lovelier, most of the time we want to be better than we are. The ultimate redemption of character -- we try. Then, we try harder.
So, while I don't resolve formally, I count myself part of the collective consciousness of humans, licking our wounds just long enough to learn something and grow more every day. Always learning, evolving and finding ways to accept our inability to attain perfection.
I love that most resolutions drift off, die and are not achieved. I love that, despite this, we show up... every day. We try. We resolve to try. There's nothing more hopeful than the attempt.