Every New Year’s Day, just before we tuck into bowls of traditional Hoppin’ John, a humble stew of black-eyed peas and smoked ham hock, my family passes around scraps of paper. We don’t say a word. Each member knows the routine—we write down two or three resolutions for the coming year, and after breakfast we take turns announcing our intentions.
Then, my wife collects the paper scraps and puts them in a small heirloom crock we keep on the kitchen counter. They’re handy to refer to in, say, February and March, to see how we’re tracking. But they’re even more interesting as archived documents, to see how our interests and purpose have changed over the years as our priorities have shifted.
“Mind my own business,” my teenage daughter resolved in…
