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Perhaps, then, one of my resolutions should be to do less. Now that may be antithetical to the very notion of this book, but there is something to be said for focus. Franklin wasn’t suggesting that we needed to resolve to do everything but rather that we resolve to do what “we ought.” Maybe what I ought, in this case, is to do less and be better at it. Maybe if I finally learned to say no, I would have an easier time achieving yes. Geez, that’s almost profound.

I have known the freedom of no once before. Overcommitted, overworked, overtired, and overexposed, I decided that I needed to scale back. One by one, as fiscal years ended, I shed volunteer and nonessential work-related committees, paring them down to . . . none. As people called to seek confirmation that I would continue to serve at the end of a yearly mandate, I politely declined. When asked the reason, I was honest. It was surprising how understanding people were. My fears of disapproval or a lack of approbation were unfounded. As more and more of my responsibilities evaporated, I felt free. A burden, albeit an important one, had been cast off. I was unencumbered (except for all my nonvolunteer responsibilities). It was a good feeling.

It didn’t last. Once the initial euphoric sense of freedom diminished, it was replaced by some sense of longing with a healthy dollop of guilt. There was a reason, I came to understand, that I had volunteered in the first place. There was a purpose for my commitments; there was a goal with my burden. So, slowly, with a self-made promise not to take on too much, I began to reacquire volunteer commitments. A committee here, a sports team there. It felt good to give back again.

THEN ONE DAY I LOOKED UP AND I WAS HELPING COACH TWO SOCCER teams (a sport I know almost nothing about), sitting on the board of several community foundations, and representing my company on no less than eight work-related national committees. I was right back where I had started.

{ Does thou love life? Then do not squander time; for that’s the stuff life is made of.}

So the lesson, I’m sure, is this: Resolve to say no—no to being overburdened, no to being overcommitted, no to the things that take you away from what is important. Then resolve to say yes. Say yes to those things that are important and only those things.

So here I go; I resolve to say no to being overburdened. The next person who asks me to contribute to a worthy project is going to get a resounding NO . . . well, maybe.

A Tale of Castration and Second Chances

There ought to be some sort of rule against engaging in nostalgia-inducing activities while conducting life-altering programs of virtue. No good can come from long plaintive looks at life’s journey past while one is so intensely contemplating the future.

At the request of one of my colleagues, who supplements his inadequate prosecutor salary as a part-time lecturer at one of the local universities, I agreed to speak to his fourth-year criminology class on the law of search and seizure. Doing the lecture was no great difficulty; I often lecture to law students, police, lawyers, and even judges on the topic. Going to the actual class was, however, more than a little traumatic.

Looking out at the bored, slack-jawed students near the end of term, indeed likely near the end of their college lives, I was struck by the notion that their futures were like a great unmapped expedition—unknown, yet full of promise. I hated them.

Not so long ago, I, too, was a slightly bored student facing the end of my university career. In fact, if I had liberally applied Grecian formula (to the spots where there is still hair) and sucked in my gut, I could have been one of them. That’s not the real problem, of course. The real problem is that these students reminded me of why I was doing what I was doing, why I was following Franklin. I was doing it because I am a failure.

Perhaps you feel I am being too hard on myself. Cut it however you want,