New Year And Its Discontents

    Raised Catholic as a child, I made many promises to be good.  Each time I went to the confessional to unload my petty sins, I promised to do better next time.  A few Hail Marys were all I needed to send me on my way to a better life.  And any time I faced  fear, I bargained hard with my goodness in order to avert disaster.
“ Oh please God, I promise I will always believe in you if you just don’t let Mom and Dad die in a car accident.”
   This prayer was invoked  when I babysat my brothers and sisters, and thought  my parents were overdue from whatever journey they were on.   Staring out the window, I willed their car to appear and implored the deity to keep them safe.
    Praying is the primary attraction of Christianity, the idea that by asking an invisible entity for help you can improve your chances for a positive outcome.  It was a good tool, right up until I realized I was just talking to myself.  Then I was left with resolutions, backed up with only my good intentions, which are not easily able to surmount the ever heavier burden of past behavior.  We are repetitive creatures!
    So to prove this point I offer a poem from ten years ago, which reiterates some nearly  identical concerns of myself today.  The only solace is that my failure to keep these resolutions has not seemed to interfere with my general enjoyment of life as it is, even as I miss that perfection of what I imagine I should be.

2001 (or 2011) Resolutions

The year electricity gave out, stopped answering our call,
petered out before it ever got to the switch.  Finally in the dark
we see light as a treasure instead of a given.

The year coffee turned from medicine to poison, addicted,
overly devoted to dosage, technique, bitterness, I give it up
turn to milky tea, and sky becomes the first thing in the morning.

The year the newspaper stops landing on the front step,
cigar of wasted tree, smeared with words I am greedy for
redundant, trivial, disturbing, using up the free spaces of morning brain.

The year I see the commuting miles piling up, slowing me down
I-205, Powell Bvd to Oregon City, etched forever behind my eyeballs
even the hawk hunting the median strip can’t relieve my boredom. 

The year I hear the hammer hit the head of the cow
minced into hamburger, see the chicken on the guillotine
feel the loneliness of the fish as it takes the hook, and back away.

The year I read less, stop looking for answers, imagining
what might happen, and do what I can, find a candle,
make a fire, start living life and writing down as I go.