Monthly Archives: January 2025

Co-Scripting the Postscript

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Exultation is the going
Of an inland soul to sea,
Past the houses — past the headlands —
Into deep Eternity —

Bred as we, among the mountains,
Can the sailor understand
The divine intoxication
Of the first league out from land?

–Emily Dickinson (1830–1886; pioneering American poet who explored themes of death, immortality, and nature with unmatched depth.)

Frank is dead, yet he liveth. I have proof. Well, it’s proof enough to satisfy me. I’ll share it with you so you can decide for yourself, as we all must do in the end.

Frank is my friend. My use of the present tense is deliberate. Remember: though he be dead, he liveth.

We became fast friends decades ago in the 1980s when we worked together at the Library of Congress. Frank was an attorney in the General Counsel’s Office; I, Special Assistant for Human Resources. From the start, wordplay cemented our friendship. Frank loved words as much as I, and when it came to verbal banter, Frank outdistanced me often, if not always. He was the perpetual prankster as well. I remember one occasion when his twin visited, and they switched roles. John became the attorney. Frank, the visitor. They duped all of us until well past noon, when Frank decided it was time to fess up, showing everyone the fun of being identical twins.

Beyond his pranks and his verbal banter, Frank commanded trust, and it was the kind of trust that went beyond attorney-client privilege. It was trust forged from seeing moral fiber in action. Frank was no stranger to walking the high road. He and I often walked it together.

Ironically, during those years, Frank and I weren’t friends outside of work. But that didn’t matter. Friends are friends. I will forever remember my last day at work when I took an early retirement. Frank came to my office wearing a deep burgundy casual shirt, one that I had admired time and time again. He smiled, pointed to his shirt, and turned around several times:

“You want it?”

“Of course, I do.”

With all the theatrics he could muster, he unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, twirled it around in the air, and tossed it to me.

“It’s all yours. Enjoy!”

I enjoyed it until its beauty was threadbare. Friends really do that sort of thing, literally and metaphorically. They take the shirt right off their backs and give it to you. Frank was that kind of friend.

Our friendship survived my move to the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, and, in many ways, it became stronger. We didn’t see one another as often, but our connections seemed deeper and more meaningful because they were more planned and more deliberate.

I remember several special get-togethers that strengthened our already strong bond.

The first was a visit here to my mountaintop when my home was still the weekend cabin that I purchased initially. Frank came up so that he could see what I saw living up here, but he ended up helping me transplant several large Leyland Cypress. One still stands in my lower yard, towering over the landscape. Friends, like trees, stand tall.

The next was a weekend when Frank visited me in Front Royal, where I lived while juggling a teaching schedule across two campuses. I’ll always remember the unexpected snow that started falling while we were out for an evening stroll that seemed to last for hours. Eventually, we stepped inside for a late-night dinner. We were the only diners in a restaurant reminiscent of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, with its large glass windows and warm light casting an inviting glow against the stark, quiet night outside. Friends make unexpected joys more joyful.

Fast forward to more recent times. Frank and I decided to meet for lunch from time to time in historic Middleburg, VA, midway between his home in Springfield and mine in Edinburg. Before long, our occasional lunches became monthly rituals, always at the King Street Oyster Bar, always sipping Bombay Sapphire Gin and Tonics, and always sharing several dozen briny oysters on the half shell. When Frank’s wife Barbara joined us for the first time, it was as if I had known her as long as I had known Frank. Friends like that are rare.

Betwixt and between our lunches and our frequent texting were several special celebrations. Thanksgiving of 2022 comes to mind most readily. Frank, Barbara, and their friend James joined me for the day, and I served up a modest feast, including the one thing that Frank had requested: store-bought jellied cranberry sauce. Friends have quirks.

The next spring, Frank and Barbara flew to Burlington, Vermont, for the publisher’s launch of my book Green Mountain Stories by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, just to make sure that someone came to the event. Friends look out for friends.

In 2024, the Washington Area Group for Print Culture Studies (WAGPCS) invited me to speak at one of their monthly meetings in the Rare Book and Special Collections Division at the Library of Congress. Barbara was instrumental in orchestrating it all. When she first asked me whether I’d be willing to come back and talk, Frank commented that it would be like circling back home. Indeed, it was. I started my career at the Library of Congress in 1969, and it was there that Frank and I engraved our friendship. I loved Frank’s observation so much that I incorporated it into the title of my April 4th talk: “Circling Back Home: Thomas Shuler Shaw, Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, and the Library of Congress.” Frank and Barbara were there for the talk and for dinner afterward. Friends keep friends in their circle.

Frank and I were well aware that our friendship was special. I suppose that’s why every time we met and then parted to go our separate ways, we always turned around, in sync it seemed, to smile and wave goodbye at least once, sometimes twice, as if that goodbye might be forever. Friends know that one day, forever comes.

The last time that Frank and I carried out our turn-around-and-wave-goodbye ritual was last September when we lunched at the King Street Oyster Bar, with John joining us. Frank seemed strong despite having some health issues that his doctors thought might be related to his liver. Within a month or so, Frank was given the grim news that he was in liver failure, with perhaps four months or so to live. He called to tell me. Friends share tragedy, even through tears.

The details of our interactions since then are of little consequence except for my proof that though Frank be dead, he liveth. Here’s how I know.

During one of our conversations, Frank wanted to talk about dying. Conversations about death and dying are so important, yet so many people aren’t comfortable grappling with the topic. Frank knew that I was. We didn’t talk about the art of dying. Instead, we talked about the mystery of the Great Beyond. What awaits us when we are freed from our mortal selves?

We both talked. We both listened. Frank is Catholic. I’m Protestant. We talked about the Christian notion of the Afterlife as a divine manuscript of salvation or separation, with Heaven and Hell serving as eternal footnotes to a life well (or poorly) lived. Barbara is Jewish. We talked about Judaism often leaving the notion of the afterlife intentionally open-ended, a poetic ellipsis, focusing more on righteous living than on what comes after. We talked about the fact that while different world religions script the afterlife differently, each crafts a unique but converging narrative that points toward some form of existence beyond death.

We both agreed that death is not the end. We both agreed that religions, in their diverse and poetic ways, reassure us that the story carries on, that the postscript—whatever its shape—awaits. We reminded one another of the universal longing for connection—across faiths, lives, and time.

I jokingly suggested to Frank that if he died first, which seemed likely, that he should reach out to me somehow and let me know whatever he could let me know. He agreed. Friends reach out to one another, always.

And here’s where proof marches in.

Frank died peacefully on January 13th, at 10:04pm. I didn’t get Barbara’s text message until the next morning.

As I tried to process the weight of Frank’s passing, I turned to one of the things that always brings me solace—Gospel music. I have dozens and dozens of Gospel songs on my playlist, never knowing which song will play first.

“Alexa, shuffle my playlist Gospel.”

The song that started playing gave me goosebumps from head to toe. It was Ralph Stanley, the acclaimed King of Mountain Music, triumphantly singing “When I Wake Up to Sleep No More”:

What a glad thought some wonderful morning
Just to hear Gabriel’s trumpet sound
When I wake up (When I wake up)
To sleep no more

Rising to meet my blessed Redeemer
With a glad shout I’ll leave the ground
When I wake up (When I wake up)
To sleep no more

When I wake up (on some glad morning)
To sleep no more (jewels adorning)
Happy I’ll be (over in glory)
On Heaven’s bright shore (telling the story)
With the redeemed of all the ages
Praising the One whom I adore
When I wake up (when I wake up)
To sleep no more

I chuckled, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Frank had just paid me a visit.

True to his word, Frank kept his part of our agreement, and, in listening and believing, I kept mine. Together, we co-scripted the postscript—a reminder that the stories we write with those we love don’t end.

§  §  §

Frank Mack

December 13, 1952 – January 13, 2025

Invisible, yet alive—

Whispers. Touches. Sings.

Handshakes from the Universe

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“The universe is not outside of you. Look inside yourself; everything that you want, you already are.”

–Rumi (1207–1273; Persian poet, scholar, and mystic whose timeless works explore themes of love, spirituality, and the interconnectedness of all things.)

I don’t have a farm, and I’ve never had one. But these days, I’m feeling like Old MacDonald himself. Patterns surround us, after all—sometimes playful and sometimes profound—and lately, the rhythm of that old nursery rhyme keeps echoing in my mind:

Old MacDonald had a farm
Ee i ee i o
And on his farm he had some cows
Ee i ee i oh
With a moo-moo here
And a moo-moo there
Here a moo, there a moo
Everywhere a moo-moo

By the time I listen to the cows, chickens, ducks, pigs, and all the other animals that have wandered into the song since it started in 1706, I’m always left wondering what animal sound I’ll hear next.

But these days, I’m feeling like Old MacDonald not because of the animals I don’t have but because of the numbers I do. They’re everywhere—so much so that my version of the rhyme might go like this:

Old Man Kendrick saw some numbers
Ee i ee i o
And in those numbers, he found great calm
Ee i ee i oh
With a one-one here
And a two-two there
Everywhere a three-three

Those numbers aren’t just any numbers. They’re palindromes–they remain the same when reversed, like 121. We all see them, and usually, it’s not anything to write home about. However, I wrote about them once in “Take Three | Living With a Writer: Owning Up to My Own Eccentricities.” In that post, I mentioned my fascination with palindromes.

Some of you might be saying:

“They’re just numbers. After all, the brain is wired to notice patterns.”

Some days I’m saying the same thing.

Or some of you might be thinking:

“What you’re experiencing with those numbers is synchronicity–the universe lining things up in a way that you can’t ignore. So, sit up and take notice.”

Some days, I’m thinking the same thing because I’m a big believer in synchronicity. I could point to endless examples in literature. Surely, you’ll remember that moment in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” when the narrator perceives an external presence—seraphim swinging a censer—as he grieves and longs for his deceased Lenore:

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.   

The seraphim seem to offer grace and comfort—a chance to shift perspective. Yet instead of accepting it, the narrator clings to despair, choosing to fixate on the raven’s ominous “Nevermore.”

Or consider Sarty in William Faulkner’s “Barn Burning.” His inner conflict aligns with external signs and moments. The flickering fires, the repeated moral choices, and the final break from his father feel like synchronistic echoes guiding him toward a moral path, despite his family’s destructive tendencies.

And in Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral,” the narrator’s transformation during the drawing of the cathedral feels like a moment of deep synchronicity. His inability to “see” spiritually aligns with the blindness of the visitor. As they draw the cathedral together, there is a sense that the universe orchestrates this connection to lead the narrator toward personal growth.

These moments in literature remind me that synchronicity often acts as a mirror, reflecting back a truth we’re ready to see. They resonate because, like the seraphim in “The Raven” or the blind visitor in “Cathedral,” I’ve experienced moments where something beyond myself seemed to nudge me toward clarity.

But what’s happening with the palindromic numbers that have taken up residence with me is different. This feels deeper and more personal. This feels gentle, steady, like footsteps in alignment with my own, affirming my path.

It all started back in November when I reached my palindromic birthday of 77. I chuckled when I saw it coming—it wasn’t my first palindromic birthday, of course, but something about 77 felt especially auspicious. Since then, palindromic patterns haven’t just appeared occasionally; they’ve settled in, becoming a quiet rhythm in my days.

It’s not just the random glance at the clock showing 3:33 or the odd receipt totaling $22.22. These numbers have become more consistent, almost as if they’ve found a permanent rhythm in my life. The day after I made a tough decision, the clock read 12:21—a subtle nudge from something beyond myself. Later, after a longer-than-usual bike ride, I checked the dash: 22.2 miles. By then, I was already tuned in.

They’re not asking me to figure something out, nor are they pointing to some hidden treasure or cosmic secret. Instead, they light up the small corners of my day, asking only to be noticed and appreciated. License plates, receipts, random book pages—they all flicker with symmetry, mirroring something steady and affirming.

Last week, the numbers seemed to crescendo, appearing almost everywhere in one single, solitary day: 444, 717, 505, 808, 919, 404, 414, 555, 88 1111, 404, 111, 212, 414, 444, 555, 77, 44, 212, 515. It felt like a boisterous celebration, arranged by the universe—not for my analysis, but simply for my acknowledgment.

These patterns aren’t luring me toward some great revelation. Instead, the numbers feel still—like standing in the center of a room, with mirrors reflecting me from every angle, reflecting where I stand.

And in that reflection, I feel something that I wasn’t seeking and hadn’t expected—affirmation.

I’ve spent a lot of my life chasing after answers, but this feels like the opposite. The palindromes don’t feel like questions at all. They feel like handshakes from the universe, soft and steady, offering no demands—just quiet reassurance. They’re not saying, “Keep going,” or “Turn around.” They’re saying quite simply, “You’re already here. And it’s enough. All is well.”

I might not have cows or chickens, but I have these numbers. They’re mine, and they’re here, there, and everywhere—soft reminders that I’m two-stepping with the universe. Frankly, I wouldn’t trade my handshakes from the universe for all the moo-moos in the world. These quiet handshakes remind me that I’m exactly where I need to be. And isn’t that enough?

In Defense of Memoir Writers

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“The universal does not attract us until housed in an individual.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the Transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century. Known for his influential essays including Self-Reliance and The Over-Soul.)

Memoirists writers are shamelessly self-centered, and I ought to know. I’m one of ’em. And of course, I know that you really want to know why I used ’em instead of them.

You do want to know, don’t you? You don’t?

Well, this is where things start to get dicey, because I’m going to tell you anyway.

I chose ’em instead of them because the former seemed more casual and playful and, in my mind, it makes me feel comfortable bashing the hell out of ’em since I’m bashing the hell out of myself at the same time. Now you know.

Aren’t you glad that I told you? You’re not?

No problem. Like I said. We’re shamelessly self-centered.

Now that I’ve cleared the air about that one teensy-weensy word choice–it was a choice, of course, though I’m not sure ’em should count as a word–let me tell you how the title of today’s post bullied its way to the top.

You do want to know, don’t you? You don’t?

Well, I’m betting that you know exactly what’s coming next. You’re right. I’m going to tell you anyway. Like I said. We’re shamelessly self-centered.

Originally, today’s post was titled “An Apologia for Memoirists.” Clever, no? I thought so, too, despite the way the word apologia looks. It may look like an apology, but it is not an apology at all. Au contraire. It is a staunch defense of something.

Let me give you an example of an old and famous apologia. I’m thinking of Plato’s Apologia Socratis, the legal self-defense that Socrates spoke at his own trial for impiety and corruption. He was defending himself against the charges of corrupting the youth and of not believing in acknowledged and accepted gods.

After thinking about that example, I decided that apologia was a poor word choice for inclusion in the title of today’s post. As I have just demonstrated, its meaning is easily misconstrued. Beyond that, its pronunciation is not easy either.

Is it “a–puh-low-jee–uh?”

or

Is it “a–puh–low-jee-uh?”

Damned if I know. And if I don’t know how to pronounce a word, I’ll be damned if I’m going to use it.

So, in a touch or two on my Smartphone, I struck right through An Apologia and replaced it with two words that are easily pronounced and readily understood: In Defense.

There. I’ve straightened out Apologia. Now, let me explain why I scrapped Memoirists. I suppose any reader who knows what a memoir is would know–or quickly deduce– that a memoirist is “a person who writes memoirs.” Don’t you detest circular definitions like that? I do. But you can’t blame me for it! Blame dictionary.com. That’s where the definition came from, and that’s why I put it in quotes. I may go ’round in circles, but I would never give you a circular definition. I’d spit it out exactly as it is. A memoirist is someone like me who takes the raw material of their life—its triumphs, trials, quirks, and quiet moments—and shapes it into a narrative that not only reflects their truth but connects with the truths of others.

That definition is mine, and I like it. However, I scrapped Memoirists for an entirely different reason. If you think pronouncing Memoir is an exercise in tongue-mouth calisthenics, try pronouncing Memoirists:

● mem-wahr-ists

or

● mem-wawr-ists

Well, maybe it rolls off your tongue just fine, but it gets stuck to the roof of my mouth. And, I don’t know about you, but when something sticks to the roof of my mouth, I get rid of it as quickly as possible.

That’s just what I did with Memoirists. I got rid of it. Quickly. In just a touch or two on my Smartphone, I struck right through part of Memoirists and replaced it with Memoir Writers. I know. Two words instead of one. Fine. What I lost in word count, I gained in mouth feel.

It took a while, but now you know–even if you had no desire in knowing–everything you never wanted to know about the origin of the title In Defense of Memoir Writers. Like I said. We’re shamelessly self-centered.

Now, I’m certain that you want to know why I feel the need to defend myself and other memoir writers. You do want to know, don’t you? You don’t?

Well, I’m betting that you know exactly what’s coming …

Like I said. We’re shamelessly self-centered. Right? I mean, after all, we share all of the intimate details of our lives with the entire world as if they give a rat’s ass about our world. But we do it anyway. Is that self-centered or what?

Take me, for example. I may have one-upped Anne Sexton who commented, “I tell so much truth in my poetry that I’m a fool if I say more.” I don’t know how many words are in her canon–she does have a canon, you know, though I shudder at the thought–but since 2021 when my blog shifted focus from research to memoir, I’ve spewed out nearly 300,000 words. My God. I’m taken aback. How is it possible that I have shared so much about me, especially when I tell writers that there’s no me in memoir. If they looked closely, they would see for themselves that there is a me in the word, and, like I’ve said all along, memoir writers like me are shamelessly self-centered. This post proves it. After all that I’ve written who would think that I could write more, but here I am, dragging you along to somewhere I think you might want to be for a few minutes–perhaps leading you to somewhere you might even want to stay a while to rest, perhaps to heal.

I shudder at the things that I have shared with you. I do. You know as much about me as I know about myself, and if you don’t know it off the top of your head–and that’s how certain I am that I matter to you–you can find it by foolin’ around in my blog. Let me zing you with a few things, and as I do, I wonder–I just wonder–whether you would put yourself out there for all the world to know.

You know that I’m so full of myself that I fully believe that I helped my Mother give me birth so that I could start charting new territories in my brand-new world.

You know that as my mother preached I wiped away the tears that fell from women’s eyes, some of them slain in the Spirit and hopping from the back of one pew to the next, all the way up to the front of the church and then all the way back again, never missing a jump and never suffering a fall.

You know that when I hold out my right hand to you, you’re grasping the hand that my Father held tight after he nearly cut it off accidentally while butchering a chicken.

You know the challenges that I faced as a gay guy born in the Bible-Belt in the late 1940s, growing up there in the 1950s and 1960s, trying my best to stay true to my authentic self.

You know that I chase dreams and never let go, even if it takes me 50 years as it took me to become an English professor.

You know that the praying hands my Mother and I witnessed in the lid of my Father’s coffin took us both by surprise with the words, “May God hold you in the palm of His hand until we meet again,” holding for me, and me alone, a lasting message.

You know that after my Mother’s burial, I took my hands–strong from the strength of hers–and released from their cage three white doves, flying upward, perhaps at that same mysterious moment when my mother found her way back home and celebrated her arrival with outstretched hands.

You know that when I wrote my late partner’s obituary, it was as if angel wings brushed across the page, just as magically as Allen brushed across and touched our life together.

Equally important, you know that I sometimes ignore dust bunnies and cobwebs; that I get ideas for writing everywhere, even when biking or weeding; that I notice smells like dill and black snakes; and that when I’m not having real guests, I’m conjuring up imaginary ones.

You know all these things and so much more about me because of one thing that I keep on doing right here in my blog post. Week after week after week, I take my bony index finger, hook the side of my metaphorical homespun curtains, and pull them back gently so that you can see through the fragile glass pane and catch glimpses of my world–past, present, and future. Creation. Faith. Survival. Authenticity. Perseverance. Grace. Transcendence. Love. Imagination.

From that perspective, it occurs to me that maybe memoir writers like me aren’t shamelessly selfish after all. Maybe we take our triumphs, trials, quirks, and quiet moments and try to shape them into a narrative that not only reflects our truths as we know them but also connects with your own truths as you glimpse into your world–past, present, and future.

Maybe memoir writers like me aren’t shamelessly selfish at all. Instead, maybe, just maybe, we’re shamelessly selfless—willing to sacrifice our private selves so that something universal can emerge from the personal. Even if the greater good is one solitary soul, needing an oar to stay afloat, it’s in the act of revealing our individual stories that we reflect something far larger than ourselves.

Maybe that’s our truest calling—not selfishness, but selflessness. And perhaps that’s the best defense I can offer for memoir writers like me.

Page 415 of 415: The Power of Showing Up (Even in Bed)

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“Dripping water hollows out stone, not through force but through persistence.”

—Ovid (43 BCE – 17/18 CE; Roman poet best known for his works Metamorphoses and The Art of Love. his works shaped Western literature and narratives of perseverance.)

Voila! As I finished uploading the last essay into my MS Word document, I glanced at the upper-right corner and smiled:

● Page 415 of 415

Wow! That’s a lot of pages.

And when I looked down at the lower-left corner, my smile stretched from ear to ear:

● 100,740 words

Wow! That’s a lot of words.

Yet, the more that I thought about it, the more I realized that it’s really not a big deal.

Here’s why. I write in bed every night. Every single night. Got it? It has nothing to do with being in the mood. Nothing to do with being inspired. It has everything to do with showing up. Everything to do with showing up as a “writer in bed,” 365 nights a year. From that perspective, if I look at the total word count, I’m writing around 276 words a night. That’s not a lot.

But here’s the thing—once I set the goal, I follow through. Same time. Same place. Night after night. A fierce determination to write until I’m sleepy.

The payoff? Immense.

● A blog post, every week.

● A 415-page manuscript, totaling 100,740 words.

It gets better. As a result of showing up–as a result of follow-through–those words and those pages are now in the hands of my publisher, and my third collection of essays will be out this spring. The Third Time’s the Charm: Still Foolin’ Around in Bed.

Now you know. My writing secret is out.

I show up. I’m present. I write.

Then I follow through. I carry my writing intent forward, determined to have a blog post ready every Monday morning. Determined to have a collection of 52 or so creative nonfiction essays ready at the end of the year.

There’s a beautiful simplicity in what I’m doing that points to something true. Much of success, growth, and connection in life happens because we keep showing up and following through. Even if we’re not perfect, that steady presence builds momentum.

As we enter the first full week of 2025, we can all benefit from that truth especially as we tackle our New Year’s resolutions, even if we made just one.

One resolution is the lump sum of how many I made! It has nothing to do with my nighttime writing. Instead, it has to do with my morning biking routine, something I’ve done indoors for decades. Every day, without fail, I mount my faithful Schwinn and aim to hit at least 15 miles daily, most days 20. I’m attentive. I pedal 20-23 miles per hour, always exceeding Fitbit’s Zone minutes, customized just for me.

Several weeks ago, however, Fitbit launched a Cardio Load feature that intrigued me. It’s similar to Training Load metrics seen in high-end fitness watches (like Garmin or Polar), but Fitbit simplifies it for everyday users like me to easily track and interpret their progress. It measures the strain that my cardiovascular system experiences during physical activity. It reflects the cumulative impact of my workouts over time, helping me understand how hard my heart is working and whether I’m training too much, too little, or just right.

As might be expected, my biking routine had pedaled me perfectly into the cardiovascular sweet spot of excellence. But guess what? When it comes to Cardio Load, it’s not sweet at all. The first day that I tried it–biking the same way I’ve biked forever and a day–I discovered that I didn’t hit my recommended Cardio Load at all. Damn!

I knew at once what my resolution would be. Keep on biking with a goal of hitting my daily Cardio Load recommendations. It’s not easy. I have to pedal at least 23-24 miles per hour, plus I have to bike in longer stints to achieve intensity. I can tell when I get into my zone: it’s like crossing into fire—my legs pumping molten steel and my lungs drinking in the heat. My skin hums, sweat rolls in rivulets, but beneath it all, I feel power—sharp and alive, burning just right.

Easy? Hell no. But I am resolved to show up every day and follow through with the Cardio Load that Fitbit recommends for me. I know fully well that my body will face a learning curve, but I’m committed to biking my way to improved endurance and fitness. Every day, I’ll be hopping on my Schwinn, fiercely determined to chase down my Cardio Load and crush it!

Fitness and health resolutions are probably at the top of your list, too—exercising more, losing weight, meditating, or maybe just getting better sleep. Whatever your goal, it’s not about overhauling your life overnight. It’s about showing up—one walk, one salad, one deep breath at a time. Small shifts add up, and before you know it, you’ve walked hundreds of miles or made it through January without stress-eating half your pantry.

Or maybe you’ve decided to focus on personal growth and education. Maybe you resolved to read more books, to learn a new skill or hobby, to take a class, to continue your formal education, or to journal regularly. Whatever your goal, it’s not about mastering everything at once. It’s about showing up—one chapter, one class, one messy journal entry at a time. Growth isn’t loud and immediate; it’s quiet and steady, and those small steps lead to bigger shifts before you even realize it.

Chances are good that many of you made resolutions aimed at strengthening your relationships and social life. Maybe you resolved to communicate more effectively, spend more quality time with family and friends, meet new people and expand your social circles, or strengthen your romantic relationships. Whatever your goal, it’s not about grand gestures. It’s about showing up—one call, one coffee date, one honest conversation at a time. Relationships grow in the quiet spaces we choose to fill with presence and care.

Even if you didn’t make it a formal resolution—though I’m betting you did—we can all work on improving our mindset and perspective. Maybe this year you want to let go of grudges, worry less, stop sweating the small stuff, or practice gratitude. Perhaps you just want to be more present in the moment. Whatever your goal, it’s not about perfecting your outlook overnight. It’s about showing up—one deep breath, one pause, one small shift in focus at a time. The mind, like anything else, grows stronger with steady attention and care.

And what about your determination this year to give back and engage more with your community? Maybe you want to volunteer regularly, take part in local initiatives, or donate to causes close to your heart. Whatever your goal, it’s not about making startling, sweeping changes. It’s about showing up—one hour, one act of kindness, one moment of service at a time. The smallest efforts ripple outward, and before you know it, you’re part of something larger than yourself.

Maybe at the top of your list are spiritual and inner growth resolutions. Perhaps you’re looking to deepen your practice through meditation, prayer, or daily reflection. Maybe you want to live with more intention—focusing on mindfulness and being present. Or you might feel drawn to reconnect with nature, simplifying life by clearing distractions and grounding yourself in what truly matters. Maybe, just maybe, you’re leaning in—trusting the process of living, embracing faith, patience, and the unknown.

Whatever your goal, it’s not about achieving enlightenment overnight. It’s about showing up—one quiet moment, one breath, one step toward stillness at a time. The soul, like anything else, finds its way forward through presence and gentle persistence.

Of course, plenty of other resolutions might top your list this year—ones I won’t dive into but are just as worthy of your focus. Maybe you’re aiming to advance your career, start a new project, or finally wrangle your calendar into submission. Perhaps finances are front and center—saving more, paying down debt, or planning for the future. Or maybe this is the year you let loose, travel more, dive into creative passions, and rediscover what brings you joy.

Whatever your goal, the same truth applies. It’s not about conquering everything in one fell swoop. It’s about showing up—one task, one small win, one brushstroke at a time. Progress happens quietly, and before long, those little moments stack up into something bigger than you imagined.

Here we are—the first full week of the New Year—riding high on resolutions we’ve made but probably won’t keep. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Life isn’t about whims or midnight promises made in a champagne haze. Real change doesn’t happen because the clock strikes twelve. It happens when we show up the next morning—and the one after that—and follow through.

The stroke of midnight might spark the idea, but it’s the steady steps after that turn resolutions into something real. That’s how I ended up with 415 pages, 100,740 words, and another book in the works—one sleepy night at a time.