New Year's Resolutions

A few summers back, a certain couple who shall remain nameless were fond of somewhat aggressively praying before meals in the dining hall. Although not overt proselytes, the aggression lay in the fact that if you were sitting near them, it was unignorable. For one thing, they had to sit directly across from one another in order to hold hands. If such facing seats were not available, the two would either ask someone already seated at the table to move, or, more often than not, take the more passive-aggressive approach of sighing, exchanging meaning-laden glances, and ultimately reaching ACROSS other diners in order to hold hands while they prayed, for what felt like a small eternity. Perhaps it was only a mere 20 seconds or so, but such awkwardness can feel like minutes, and in those minutes the reached-across person would be left to contemplate A) whether such breaches of manners are permissible in matters of faith, B) why the handholding part was really necessary in such circumstances, C) how her food was getting cold because, as gauche as it is to reach across someone to pray, surely it must be even moreso to reach around that supplicating arm for a tater tot and gobble it up, not to mention the risk of embarrassing ketchup drippage, and D) the fact that she, the reached-across person, was not praying, but instead spending the same amount of time and energy scheming about how to circumvent the obstacle of said pious appendage and get a tater tot from her plate to her mouth, including ketchup.

It was that lattermost point that nagged at me, long after the annoyance of the situation had morphed into nostalgic hilarity. Because as annoying as it was, the reason why it felt so uncomfortable was that, though they seemed self-important and absurdly serious, next to their devotions I felt shallow and superficial. The rest of us complained about the terrible food (and it was quite terrible), but these two thanked Jesus for it. For, like, minutes at a time. The rest of us made mashed-potato volcanoes and wrote crude words with our sandwich-crusts, and these two stopped to appreciate the bounty of heaven, in silence, three times a day.

I tried to think whether I stopped to appreciate anything in the course of an average day. Whether I had three moments of purposeful (rather than circumstantial) silence in a day. Whether I observed any sort of ritual at all (aside from toothbrushing) (which I take rather seriously). The results were not impressive. I’ll marvel at a nice sunset or a full moon, if I happen to see one, but only if it strikes me as marvelous—I don’t often, anymore, search for the beauty in ordinary things—like a cloudy day, an unfull moon, a twisted tree. I never stop in purposeful silence to catalogue the things around me, and I am certainly unpracticed in the art of gratitude. Even the nicest meals I have ever eaten have gone sans a moment of appreciation (I’ll thank someone who paid for a meal, but forget to thank the circumstances that provided it), so I would never have stopped to thank the world for the bland slop served up in the Refectory. And for that I am ashamed.

So it has only taken me a year and a half to come around to the fact that, much like divesting from Halliburton, I need to appreciate my food in order to feel myself a moral person. Not so much savor its taste, but actually nurture a sense of gratitude for the fact of it, the abundance of it, and the beings that gave their lives for it, both animal and vegetable. To acknowledge that to eat is sacred, precious, is the way I participate in the circle of life until I become ashes. It’s the least I can do. And also the most.

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It should be noted that, for all my resolve, I still have trouble remembering to do it. I have written it and my other resolutions on the large blackboard in our kitchen in order to try to abide by them. And my other resolutions are to WRITE and to proactively pursue my own happiness; i.e. stop my kvetching and try to enjoy my life, rather than focus on the frustration and isolation that so overwhelmed my autumn. It’s actually going well so far. Here’s hopin’.