This year I'm trying my best not to make resolutions, but they keep sneaking into my psyche. Years ago, when I was quitting smoking, we were told to tap into our "inner junkie": a nasty, Gollum like creature that's responsible your urges ("we needs just one little ciggie"). I'm realizing that resolutions are no different, I crave them because they assure me that next year will be OK, if only I do ________ . New Year's resolutions pose as a 50% off luxurious, cashmere pullover that's ever-so-slightly tight, but will fit perfectly once you're 10 pounds lighter (we needs it, we must have the precious) only to end up as that cheap pilly sweater you kick yourself for buying as you toss it into the Goodwill pile.
I've decided that in 2009, I'm not swearing off anything, rather, I'm letting things unfold, and they can take their own sweet time. A dormant well of creativity has been bubbling up recently, but this year, instead of intending to paint this wall (which must be the perfect shade), or creating a modern folk art paint job for our kitchen stool (one that shows I'm really an "artist"), I'll relax and see where the flow takes me. So while I want to declare that 'I'm losing 20 pounds', 'I'm going off sugar', or "I'll fold the laundry right away", I'm resisting. Hands trembling, coffee drinking (well, tea in '09) resisting.