Issue #44

Resolution Resolve

A bag of walnuts, that’s what started it, a bag of whole walnuts I bought in November following a trip to Sicily. My plan was to leisurely crack the shells and eat walnuts for breakfast every morning, just as I had in Sicily. But the bag was never opened, and the virgin jaws of the stainless-steel nutcracker were still encased in their packaging.

This being the end of the year and time to plot out 2026 resolutions, I decided to look around for evidence of other abandoned self-improvement projects so as not to repeat my mistakes. I didn’t have to look very hard.

A motley collection of supplements and vitamins, opened and abandoned, sat on the counter adjacent to the walnuts. I had bottles of magnesium, calcium, moringa, biotin, and vitamins D + K because that combination was supposed to be essential for absorption of something else that was even more essential. So essential that the bottle was still full, and whatever it was that I was supposed to absorb was long ago flushed from my system.

A stack of five books was piled up on my nightside tabletop, selected to reduce screen time. They’d been there for months, moved only for dusting. A dozen more were stuffed into the drawer and shelf of the nightstand—mostly novels, but also two poetry books, and the ubiquitous Mel Robbins’ tome Let Them. Pfft—the only thing I had Let Them do was take my money for a book I barely skimmed.

Six more books were hidden on the far side of the couch so that Husband would not say, “Why do you keep buying books you don’t read?”

My small bathroom countertop and drawers were crowded with jars of retinol, eye de-puffing creams, neck tighteners, and serums that had particular purposes which escaped me at the moment. What was inescapable was the fact that my face looked the same as it had this time last year. Slightly droopier, if you’re going to be a stickler about it. Had I used the products as directed or at least with a smidgen of regularity, I might be less droopy.

A jar of Bedtime Bliss and a tincture called Peace of Mind were supposed to help with my sleep problems, but I forgot I owned them. I did try another sleep aid, a neck collar that emitted electric pulses on my vagus nerves. After five minutes of use, Husband saw me googly-eyed in the chair and asked why I was electrocuting myself and had I completely lost my marbles. “It’s helping,” I said—it wasn’t—it was only making me feel uncomfortable and ridiculous and ripped off. I think I shoved it under the bed.

A cloisonne box on my dresser stored small tokens of various intentions to step up my style, and my subsequent and wholly predictable resistance. Gold conch shell drop earrings made me feel like a walking wind chime. The big pearl earrings which had looked so nice on the saleswoman, the well-dressed one who promised, “You’ll wear them every day!” were worn only once. The whole time I felt like I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t, specifically, the well-dressed saleslady.

There were unopened boxes of eye drops and teeth whiteners, bottles of hair smoothers and hair protectants, a jar of elbow balm, multiple nail files and an exfoliating heel scrubber. And there was me, the owner of those remedies, a frazzled-haired woman with scaly skin and the teeth of a tea drinker.

Did I have unburned incense sticks from a visit to Hindu monastery? Yes. Did I use them to meditate? No. Did I even meditate? Need I answer?

I came to the end of my self-improvement survey. Undoubtedly I earned an F. But only for follow-through. I gave myself an A for intent, and bonus points for the sudden, sweet realization, fifteen years after his death, that I am my father’s daughter.

My dad was ever embarking on self-improvement projects for himself and for his eleven children. You can only coast downhill! read a poster he hung in the basement. The hundreds of books and the range of rotating exercise equipment in our rec room were testaments to his core belief in the possibility of change.

He had books on fixing your eyesight, he had books on learning to draw, how to speed-read, how to stop worrying, many books on how to boost your health with natural cures, and more than one on how to make money writing greeting cards. (Unfortunate irony: he never wrote or sold a greeting card, and macular degeneration eventually robbed him of the ability to read books on eyesight improvement.) His books took up three walls of shelving that went all the way to the ceiling.

He had a rowing machine, exercise mats with illustrations of calisthenics imprinted on them, a mini trampoline, a stationary bike, a small wheel with a handlebar that you rolled out and back, grip strengtheners, and a punching bag. When jogging started becoming popular (before it was recast as running), he bought matching sweatsuits for my mom and himself so they could go jogging together. They jogged around the block and that was the end of it.

None of these purchases changed who he was. None were used very much, if ever, by him. But to me they don’t speak of his failures or his lack of resolve. To me they signal hope, humility, and to borrow a phrase from my brother’s Taekwondo practice, indomitable spirt. In this light I’ll hold up my walnuts and unread books and choose to remain encouraged.

Because aren’t the real failures people who have given up hope of changing? Aren’t the biggest losers people who think they don’t need to change at all?

So here’s to New Year’s resolutions. Once more to the breach, dear friends, once more! Pardon the theatrical switcheroo, but let’s hop on our donkeys, let’s take up our lances and have one more go at the windmills of our imperfections, wobbly and old though we may be.

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It was inevitable that Don Quixote would come to mind as soon as I started thinking about my dad and his lifelong quest to become a better man. I have memories of him singing, loudly, hammily, “The Impossible Dream” as I played it on the piano. Fighting the unbeatable foe, reaching for the unreachable star—I hear him singing and I can imagine how much he must have identified with the dreamy old knight. Now that I think about it, my dad shared his name/title (Don), and we had a framed Don Quixote print hanging right over the piano.

“The Impossible Dream” has always moved me. You may find it cheesy, especially if you are of my generation and heard it on The Lawrence Welk Show; or you may be too young to have ever heard it at all. Either way, give it a listen. In these crazy, dispiriting times, we need reminders to hope. Play it. Sing along. Thrust open your arms and throw your head to the sky and feel huge and small at the same time, triumphant and sorrowful all at once. Feel the power of your human spirit to carry on.

I’ve listened to every cover of “Impossible Dream” I could find on Spotify. Cher, Elvis, Glen Campbell, Diana Ross, Temptations, Shirley Bassey, Luther Van Dross, Johnny Mathis, Frank Sinatra, Josh Groban all have their own take on it, some overly dramatic, some not dramatic enough. I’m still partial to the cast recording I grew up with, but second to that, and I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit this, are versions by Andy Williams (his is clean, pure, understated) and goofy Jim Nabors, of all people. What a voice that man had. Best to listen rather than watch him because his mouth movements are distracting.

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