Every year I tell myself that the twelve months ahead of me will be different than the dying days of the closing calendar. I disdain resolutions in favor of hopes, dreams, and determinations. My house needs cleaning; my closet yearns for order; the laundry unit flashes its TUB CLEAN icon. A day away from work affords the opportunity for a fresh start, and if I have any resolve, it lies in the task list that I've just sent to the printer in my upstairs bedroom.
Possibility calls to me like the elusive eternal lover of whom I have had painfully short glimpses for nearly seven decades. Podcasts and videos play in the background with alternating messages of hope and despair. Coffee and stretching launched my morning, along with the nearly perfect scrambled eggs and lightly toasted sourdough bread with which I start most days. Always the optimist, I braid my hair, tie my shoes, and tackle the piles of clutter that seem to grow while I'm away, at work, at the shop, out of town. Those gremlins that I used to hope would clean my house seem to delight in disorder, here in my 198 square feet of tiny territory.
Politically, I know that 2025 will disappoint me. I take that as read. The kakocracy looms. The rights of child-bearing women have already been curtailed. My immigrant acquaintances fall silent when I ask about their families, paperwork, and legal representation. The decision of seventy-four million citizens to trust the greatest power to the most morally bankrupt astounds me, but I cannot impact the outcome except by the merest of gestures. As much as I dislike the expression, "que sera, sera", none better suits the perilous times we face.
Instead of fretting about the demise of the American experiment, I turn myself to a closer consideration. Once more, I determine that I will start over, with clean floors, dusted shelves, and decluttered cabinets. Unopened junk mail can be tossed. I can re-home the air fryer that I thought would change my culinary undertakings. Books that I planned to read in the old year taunt from the bedside table but their jeering will fade as they fall into a donation box. The dry ends of my braids already yielded to sharp scissors.
Yesterday's quick run for eggs and bread brought a pleasant surprise. Citrus season starts when I see the stem-and-leaf tangerines in the fruit aisle. I fell upon them like a starved shipwreck survivor, while debating the relative merits of navel or cara cara oranges with a neighbor who happened to be shopping at the same time as I. I brought home a bagful of the delightful small orbs, praying that they would not disappoint. I ate the first one last evening after a simple supper, and found it more satisfying than expensive chocolate, aged whiskey, or perfect Old Vine Zin. Its fragrance lingered for some time after I discarded the peel: the heady, alluring scent of spring.
I recognize that I might not plow through my entire to-do list before dinner. My shoulders will ache with the strain of pushing against the tension that I carry between them. The three degenerated disks that a spine surgeon declined to repair already twinge in anticipation. Those books offer a tempting detour, just as my keyboard has, just as those podcasts do, just as self-doubt always will.
But at the end of the day, I know that whatever I get done will be more than nothing. I have learned to give myself that much grace: To accept what I can do, and leave the rest for my next free hours. I enter this new year without resolution but also without reservation. Whatever it holds will be enough; whatever eludes me will be relinquished; whoever walks beside me whether for one step or a thousand will be welcome.
To those whom this missive reaches, I bid you the same: A chance to begin anew; the possibility of peace and prosperity; the opportunity to love yourself and those around you; the absence of pain, the presence of joy. If you have a to-do list with too many items, I hope you will allow yourself the luxury of dividing the tasks into surmountable increments. If you find yourself in need of permission to rest, you have it. I grant you that luxury. Remember: You can always start over next year.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
