Skip to main content

The things we promise ourselves


I have promised myself many things. 

Of those many things, I have met with only a few.

Of those few things, I have held on to fewer.

With what is left, I press on and make more promises.



Why do we do this to ourselves? Is it a form of masochism in which we doggedly set ourselves up to fail? Over and over again. Perhaps, it is due to blinkered, naive, over-ambition. Or the vagaries of hope.

Whatever the cause, the reason - the tick that makes us repeat this folly - the solution is clear: we must stop making promises.

What promises have you made to yourself recently? Me? - the usual triad of getting fitter, eating less, losing weight; plus, never again embarrassing myself by screaming and in a distinctly unhinged and undignified fashion leaping around the room, after a spider crawls out of the pyjamas I am wearing. I also promised to write something every day; walk the dogs ... more, further, faster; submit (aargh! - the curse of the procrastinator strikes again); stop eating chocolate; drink no more than (but quite possibly right up to) my weekly recommended amount of alcohol; try to hate my work less; read the books on my bedside table ... some of the books ... okay, one of the books; squeeze in the odd trip to an art gallery, or theatre, or cinema, more regularly than seldom; understand my children's maths; learn Italian; and on the subject of learning, seek out and finally commit to memory the difference between practice and practise, round and around, fewer and less, affect and effect, etc etc. The fulfilment of some of these promises-to-self is impossible. Or if not technically impossible, then highly improbable ... chocolate! Honestly? What was I thinking!

We all make other promises that we hope to keep - the unsaid ones to dear friends moving away, that we will keep in touch; the publicly declared ones to love, honour, cherish; and the whispered ones into a child's pillow, that we will always love them. We hope to keep these. We certainly meant to, at the time they were made. But life sometimes gets in the way of the promises we make.

Do I believe in the solution - to stop making promises? Of course not. It is human nature to strive constantly to better ourselves, or at least to believe that we are capable of better. To this end, we convince ourselves that if we make a promise, we give ourselves the best chance of keeping it. In a sense, we are daring ourselves not to fail.

So, as long as the promises we make could be achieved, then we should keep making them.

We won't fail in them all. And if we fail in some - well ... chocolate is deliciously addictive and spiders are hideous.



When I was a child, I promised myself that when I grew up, I would have my own dogs. That promise was met:





Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn&#

My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful.  Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten!

Curlews, summer skies and walking in circles.

Summer skies over the Yorkshire Dales and my mind is set to rest mode. But that rest is not totally restful; there is a niggle ... a memory, a hint of childhood, something that unsettles slightly - a light brush stroke of discomfort; a gossamer breath of discombobulation and a 'Woah! Wait a moment!' moment of 'that's-not-right!' - we're about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in middle Britain and yet, I can hear the distinctive Peep! Peep! of oystercatchers and the piercing cry of curlew. Here -  in the blue skies of the North Yorkshire dales and along the footpaths - and above the endless miles of drystone walls are birds that should be at the coast.  Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red pliers attached to their heads feed on - you've guessed it - oyster beds. All along the coastline of the British Isles, their distinctive cry is the call of summer. Drowned out somewhat by the banter of seagulls but sharp and