Every year I make the same resolutions: not to bite my nails, to exercise more, and to not procrastinate. Last year, before 2009 rolled around, I went on a quest to find
an epic resolution -- one that I could hold onto, learn from, be moved by, and spread like the most delicious cream cheese frosting. I wanted a resolution that would be a daily practice in a really epic way: I wanted it to be a habit I never kicked, and something so big I couldn't explain it to anyone without reaching my hands out to my sides, as far as they would reach, and laughing a big belly laugh with my mouth open wide. I wanted it to focus on laughter, and love, and kindness, and singing, and the smell of ocean on a sunny day, and spinning round in big poofy-skirted dresses, and ants opening peonies, and skipping and swinging, and 100-piece orchestras.
But I wanted it to be little too. I wanted it to be simultaneously small, something I could hold inside my heart like a warm, soft glow. Something subtle, like the smell of lavender, a mini-earthquake, or a dog's soft ear. I wanted it to be tiny enough to take with me, to fit in a pocket, maybe the size of a bejeweled blue button. A little, loose button of meaning to remind me to be compassionate, better, grateful, open, bright.
I searched for this epic resolution and I found it. With my firmest resolve, at the stroke of midnight in 2009, I was resolute to be
an instrument of peace.
What does that mean exactly? To me it was a hybrid vision of the prayer of St. Francis (though, I must note, I am not religious), and the Jimmy Eat World song
Goodbye, Sky Harbor (from their early and quite amazing album,
Clarity. The song is noted to be inspired by John Irving's
A Prayer for Owen Meany -- a book I must resolve to read in 2010.)
The prayer of St. Francis is really simple and beautiful. Abbreviated some, it reads:
Make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.
That I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love...And then the Jimmy Eat World song, from an album that reminded me of a time in my life when, after a too-long period of less-than, I had finally felt inspired, living, and whole. It is not as much the lyrics, as the song with the lyrics -- loud and quiet, loud and quiet, repeating, repeating, crescendo and quiet, drums and voice, long and finished. But, I'll try:
"Is tomorrow just a day like all the rest?"
How could you know just what you did?
So full of faith yet so full of doubt I ask.
Time and time again you said don't be afraid.
"If you believe you can do it."
The only voice I want to hear is yours.
Again.
I shall ask you this once again.
And again.
He said:
"I am but one small instrument."(Interested in the song? Check it out on YouTube
here.)
Being an instrument of peace was everything I had wanted in a resolution, and the first resolution in memory that I have stuck with, held tight to, and braided with my hair. I have kept it with me, like my blue, sparkly button, for the whole year. I think any of my friends who interacted with me on a regular basis in 2009 could attest that I wore this button like a proud cape, or some shiny shoes, or a toothy grin. I quoted it, "I am an instrument of peace," I would say to myself (and sometimes aloud.) I would channel my instrument: a violin when I was cut off on the freeway; a cello when I felt really sad; trumpets in times of great joy; an acoustic guitar to forgive; tiny, high celeste timbres, like music box notes while a sugar plum fairy dances, for when I was angry; Rhapsody in Blue for those long walks and good conversation with friends; Leonard Cohen's rich molasses voice for my mom. And for love, it is the full symphony, or the full chorus in a joyous musical.
This year, I have reprised my epic resolution that is as big as an ocean, and as tiny as map pin. I am but one small instrument.
May 2010 be a year of peace for the world, and for our lives.
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