The beginning of a new year is not really a fresh start; January is named for Janus, the Roman two-faced god of gateways and doors. One face looks forward, the other back. We all have our accumulating pasts and dwindling futures, but we see neither very clearly. We make up stories about the past and call it history, we ascribe meaning in order to reconcile with what we naively believe should be. I could tell you any number of stories about 2017, and every one of them would be a guess.
And I can't tell you anything certain about 2018, or what I intend to do about it. While I suspect the New Year's resolution conceit was dreamed up 4,000 years ago by a lazy Babylonian newspaper columnist looking for 800 words to fill his space, the concept is sound enough. People publicly avow to do better, with the belief (or at least the hope) that those who witnessed the making of the promise will somehow, through shame or support, help the resolver to keep it. And maybe that's fine for some people, maybe, as the 12-steppers say, "the program works if you work it."
Yet, making a resolution doesn't feel right to me--too often they feel like indulged wishfulness or a kind of humblebrag--sort of like the answers you're supposed to give in a job interview when you're asked about your greatest weakness: "I resolve not to demand so much from myself and to accept that there are things beyond my control" or "I resolve not to recognize that perfection is the enemy of good" or "I resolve not to rise to the bait offered by bloody idiots."
Most of us probably aren't in a position to understand what we need to improve. You don't have to suffer from the Dunning-Kruger effect to lack self-awareness. (If you want to know what areas need improvement, do what I do and ask somebody who lives with you. Bring a notepad.) If we mean to become better people, the first step might be to realize there are so many areas in which we need improvement that public declaration of intention to mend faults only calls attention to unaddressed multitudes. We might all resolve to be quieter in 2018.
But it's not my job to be quieter, and I don't make resolutions. (If I did, I sure wouldn't tell you about them.) I'm already doing the best I can. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
But if I don't put much stock in pronouncements of good intentions, I applaud the impulse. The first of the year is traditionally the time people make promises to themselves, hoping their lives will become richer and more meaningful. And if it helps you to visualize a fresh slate, a clean sheet of paper rolled into your typewriter (still a meaningful image to me), then go for it. And good luck.
Human beings are the only animals that seek to perfect themselves; marmots and eagles and garden snakes are content to conform to nature's template. Hopefulness and aspiration and striving to be better are human qualities, and there's plenty of evidence that improvement is possible. People lose fat when they burn more calories and become stronger when they lift weights. But we can only make ourselves better after we begin to perceive our faults and failures. Self-esteem is all right, but dissatisfaction is one of the great engines of accomplishment.
I go to the gym and pick up heavy things because I fear I'm getting softer. I work crosswords because it's an entertaining way to warm up my brain in the morning. I read newspapers because I mean to engage with the world beyond what immediately presents itself. (I don't watch the TV version because I know the sugar-to-nutrient ratio is dangerously high and because it exists to sell whatever its sponsors are selling. It's entertainment, and if you like it, fine; just remember it's wrasslin' and in some ways genuinely fake.)
I play a little guitar. I read. I work. I walk the dogs. I worry about things. And every year I seem to grow a little less dissatisfied.
Even after last year, which was odd and sometimes terrifying, I manage to wake up most mornings looking forward to whatever presents itself. Every day comes with a deadline, every day is a discrete problem to be solved. I like it like this and though I sometimes wish I had more time and more money, I can't pretend I haven't been fortunate. Had I been born 10 years later, I wouldn't have had the opportunities I've had. A few years earlier and I would have had to make some difficult choices at an age when I was completely unprepared to make difficult choices. Things are working out, and there's not much for which I can take credit.
And it can all be gone in a instant. I worry when Karen goes out to run before dawn. I worry when one of our dogs coughs. I know there are hard sharp limits on our world into which we all inevitably run.
Maybe the healthiest of us don't think about it. Maybe some people can live in the moment, suspended above the earnest and empty business of our kind.
Bless their hearts, I can't do that. I'll keep working on myself, but I'm not making any promises. I'm not above rolling around in the dirt with you if you push hard enough. I try to be nice, but I'm not that nice. I try to be thoughtful, but I'm not that thoughtful. I hold grudges. And I'll judge someone for driving stupidly or dressing like an idiot. But I'm getting better at not taking any of it personally.
People fall for the patter of salesmen because they feel they need the product, whatever it is, that will make them feel whole and complete. Just because it doesn't exist doesn't mean they don't long for it, that they won't seek it. That some of them won't convince themselves they've found it.
I think we'd be better if we looked inward less and outward more. To think, for more than a sentimental second, about those young men and women wearing camouflage in the airport. I think we all need a little insecurity in life, to feel the breath on the backs of our necks of whatever may be gaining on us. For as a wise man once said, "Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son."
Neither is being especially pleased with yourself. Let's resolve to do better.
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Philip Martin is a columnist and critic for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Email him at pmartin@arkansasonline.com and read his blog at blooddirtandangels.com.
Editorial on 01/09/2018