Long years of farming cotton in the Mississippi Delta set my circadian clock. I rarely sleep past four o’clock, and take long predawn walks, during which any worthwhile thoughts I have that day are likely to be formulated.
Out walking one morning after Christmas, I ruminated about how I could turn past failures into successes in the coming year. Few things relieve … and delude … the human mind more than those annual promises to oneself: New Year’s Resolutions.
If you asked Mark Twain about success, he would have said, “All you need is ignorance and confidence, and then success is sure.”
If you asked Orison Swett Marden, you would have gotten volumes of answers; success is the central theme in most of his books. Among his best-known quotes are:
“No one has a corner on success. It is his who pays the price”;
“People must make the most possible out of what’s been given them. This is success — there is no other.”;
“No man fails who does his best.”; “A will finds a way.”
Encouraged by Marden, I scribbled several New Year’s “Not To’s”: I resolved not to talk about myself, but listen to others; not to squander money; not to stop taking morning walks; not to continue being an old dog reluctant to learn new tricks; not to worry instead of praying; not to miss church on Sundays. Not to … not to … not to — so many I almost resolved not to make any resolutions!
That is, until the woman appeared. I had seen her several times during my predawn constitutionals. Old, shriveled, in clothes worn out with care, a hood covering her head, bent over a cane, she searched for coins anywhere others might have dropped them — in parking lots, along sidewalks, in public telephone change slots.
I always ignored her, but it was the season of giving. Would I continue being Scrooge? No! I strode up to her, extended a $20 bill, and said, “Happy New Year, Ma’am.”
Clutching the money to her breast in trembling hands, she raised her head, and from within the ragged hood’s black void, a smile that probably had not shone for years appeared, and I heard a tender, emotion-strangled voice say, “Oh, Mister, thank you, thank you so very much.”
As I watched her fade into the lonely darkness, I sensed a level of peace in my soul that I have rarely known.
I tore up my long list of New Year’s resolutions and replaced it with a single promise to myself: Face each new day resolving not to pass up opportunities to make it a happy one for a fellow human being.
Strolling homeward, I recalled a few lines penned by American poet Emily Dickinson:
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain.
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
