Enough with the ring-a-ding-a-ding, let’s chime in the new year with the solemn vows of new-year-new-me bullshit that most of us forget by the third week in—”Oh, I tried to keep up that diet, but all that lovely junk food kept pouring itself into my mouth and exercising got too difficult because my couch shackled me to it.” I decided not to hop onto to a dietary trend. I’m not juicing it up, downing smoothies in place of meals, not slim-fasting or weight-watching or Jenny-Craig-ing or blowing money on the dangerous crossfit (cross fit?) trend.
This year, my resolution is a revolution of my psyche. It’s a revolution of reattaining the peace she-who-shall-not-be-mentioned managed to break like a Miley Cyrus music video (ugh! That’s an image I’ll never wash from my memory). To regain a sense of control over my anger, over my emotions, over my moderate behavior in all things. Essentially, return to my philosophical roots. Mindful breathing. Mindful eating. Mindful living, and finding peace through my existence and learning through the cosmos of all that is around me. Religion for the religionless.
I resolve to read more books. To learn new things. Write more stories and talk about writing with teenagers of the library. To experience new things. To return to patience and humility. To change what is in my power and accept what isn’t. To count my “blessings.” To improve myself physically and emotionally and mentally and structurally (wait…what?).
Not a new me for a new year, but a back-to-basics me for another year that’s already proving to be absolute shit. And once I accomplish these goals, it won’t faze me.