COLUMN: Is it safe to come out and make resolutions?

In the last days of 2019, my wife and I took a trip to Amelia Island. It was a nice way to fill the gap between Christmas and New Year’s. While we were relieved one year was winding down, we were not quite ready to start a new one.

We stayed at an old schoolhouse that had been converted into an inn. The holiday lights still were twinkling in downtown Fernandina at night. It was beautiful.

While my wife walked on the beach, looking for seashells and shark teeth, I breathed in the salt air and searched for the meaning of life.

OK, I didn’t exactly wax philosophical. I simply began working on my New Year’s resolutions.

Delinda rarely makes them because she is convinced they are pointless. Resolutions have shorter life spans than gnats. They’re like kudzu … they retreat with the first frost.

But I am a goal-setter. Resolutions are right in my wheelhouse. Although I may break a few, I am determined to make them. I enjoy raising the bar for the upcoming year.

As I compiled my list, I noticed a pattern. Many began with the letter “W.”

There was the usual cast of characters. WALK more. Lose some WEIGHT. Drink more WATER. Finish WRITING my memoirs. Spend more quality time with my WIFE.

Who could have known those W’s soon would be supplanted by others?

Stay WELL. WEAR a mask. WASH your hands. WAIT for vaccine. WORRY.

To have been an even-numbered year, 2020 sure was an odd one.

The most useless purchase I made in the past 12 months was spending $25 on a leather planner with silk bookmarks, an elastic strap and an expandable back pocket.

If ever there was a year when you couldn’t plan for anything, it was this past one.

Like many of you, though, I have pushed the reset button in 2021. I am eager to fill empty pages and blank spaces.

I resolve to make up for all those missed hugs and handshakes. After nine months void of daily embraces, back slaps and high fives, we all need human contact again. I have grown weary of fist bumps and not being able to hug someone who really needs a hug. I don’t care to ever hear the term “social distancing” again.

I resolve to navigate the back roads whenever possible. Call me sentimental, but I prefer country roads and town squares to green exit signs. Sure, it often takes a longer. But the interstates have become intense and impersonal. The later Charles Kuralt once said interstates “make it possible to go from coast to coast without seeing anything or meeting anybody.’’

And, while I’m on some two-lane road – or anywhere, for that matter -- I resolve to brake for sunrises and sunsets. I pledge to pause and admire God’s gallery. The earth is at its loveliest when the torch is being passed at dawn and dusk.

I resolve to chew more fresh fruit and vegetables and eschew processed foods. It’s a noble goal, so I will extend a noble effort. No, I am not going vegan. I am not making the switch from grilling to grazing. I simply will try to remember how author Michael Pollan phrased it in his book of 64 food rules: “If it’s a plant, eat it. If it was made in a plant, don’t.’’

I resolve to return to regular worship. I grew up in the church, and it’s an important part of my life. I miss the regular routine of Sunday mornings. We have been faithful about watching our church’s live streams, and we have attended services with safety protocols and limited seating. Still, I have missed greeting people as an usher, sitting in the pews and listening to the choir singing traditional hymns. It’s called the “spirit of presence.’’

And speaking of church, I resolve to regularly attend “dirt church.’’ That’s how I saw it described in a magazine article about gardening. We probably won’t ever win “yard of the month” at my house, but there is something therapeutic about digging your fingers in the dirt and keeping those thumbs green. Not to mention the fresh air and heavy doses of vitamin D sunshine.

Happy New Year.

(Hey, 2021, will you resolve to work with us on the happy part?)

Ed Grisamore teaches journalism at Stratford Academy in Macon. His column appears on Sundays in The Telegraph.