How could I?
Life is a fun-house mirror of emotions: you weeble, you wobble, and you will fall down. Maybe the fall is a slight trip over a crack in the pavement, one that doesn't completely break your stride, or a small misstep off a stool to change a light bulb and you catch yourself. Perhaps it's a long, cascading tumble down a flight of stairs. You land flat on you back. Aches need comforting; solace tastes like sugar.
After a fall, pastries are all that stand between me and inescapable sadness. The sucrose high is my salvation: brief, blissful communion with a baked good. It's in the blood, this craving for communion. Judge not lest ye be without pastry. Let she who is without icing sugar on her hands cast the first broccoli at me.
Every December has me on the ropes. I find it hard to shake off the Ghost of Christmas past; she lurks around and shadows every step. I feel her presence in elbow twinges and neck spasms, steady as a metronome ticking through the longest night, the shortest day, the month to end all years.
No resolutions. I've never cared for them. Most Decembers I spend doing an inventory of everything I didn't manage to do during the year. It's as much fun as it sounds, like piercing a blister or sorting tax receipts.
A few intentions, then, taken direct from a Swedish proverb:
"Fear less, hope more; whine less, breathe more; talk less, say more; hate less, love more; and all good things are yours."
It's the last part that gets me. I don't need a reward unless that's what we're calling a Cheese Danish these days. It's not easy to live up to your own expectations, your family's or those of the outer world, but as my close personal friend the 14th Dalai Lama likes to say, "Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible."
I think it's easier to do with a Chocolate croissant keeping you company.