Some years back, it became a thing to choose a word for the year. I liked the idea, so several years ago, after angsting over which word might best suit me, I chose one. Not long into the year I realized I had no idea what to do with it. So I did what I often do: nothing.

The following year, I tried again. I did a bit better with that one; it inspired a few activities that I followed through on, but it was more of a word-for-a-few-months than a word for the year.

Not quite ready to give up on the whole idea, last year I chose yet another word: grace. It was the right word at the right time, and its threads wove themselves throughout my 2017. Our Sunday school class did a study on grace; I read books with the word grace in their titles. I gave it to others. I gave it to myself. I received it (over and over and over again!) I feel I ended the year a better person because I am so much more mindful of the grace and gracefulness that inhabits my world. And I now understand how a word can help shape the direction I travel.

So what word sets the stage for my 2018? Amazingly, I did not have to even ponder what this year's word would be. When I found out a class I've been wanting to take - one which I had been willing to travel 2-hours round trip on Saturday mornings to attend - will be offered three minutes away on Thursday evenings this semester, my word became clear: PERSPECTIVES.  

Although the word is both the title of the class and name of the organization behind it, the relevance of the timing is undeniable. Having just become officially retired, I am standing on the brink of possibilities and options. I can coast along and become an older version of the same old me, or I can choose to look at my life and the world I live in from different angles. A friend recently commented my new life status is "refired" and "funemployed." I liked her perspectives. There's no doubt it's my new perfect word. ​ 

​#newdirections, #perspectives, #refired 

​My reuse/repurpose heart cannot bear to toss perfectly usable bottles and jars. Never mind that I have no place to store them, that I’ll never make seasoned oils in those with elegant long necks, that I have scores of other containers for storing/
​sharing leftovers. If it’s washable and has potential for shaking, gifting, or storing, I save it.
 
To my credit, I have all the lids. And my environmentally-minded intentions are good. But do I really need proof of how much gelato I consume? And don’t all those jars pleading to be filled with something homemade make me feel more than a bit guilty?

Fully aware I’ll need some of them someday for something, I’ve opted to reduce – which goes well with reuse and repurpose. Canning jars and corked bottles have moved to the donation pile, others to the recycle bin. The remaining 19 (of 46) are safe.

​For now.
 ​

​I confess: I am an unwriter.
 
For decades, I’ve thought of myself as a writer-in-the-making. I’ve read about how writers prepare/process/discipline themselves; I’ve participated in workshops and devoured essays, articles, books, and blogs of those whose work inspires and encourages me to persist. Yet, despite not actually practicing successful writers’ strategies, and having a pitifully small body of “completed” writing, I’ve maintained my self-delusion. Until now.
 
As an unwriter, I make up clever stories. In my head. I get excited about something writable, then diffuse the energy by talking about it or getting distracted by the next exciting something. I don’t jot writing ideas on torn napkins or notes apps, or keep a useful journal, or set aside regular writing time. I am a champion unwriter.
 
I could probably start a business that helps others to become successful unwriters. Won’t happen, though. I’m also an unentrepreneur. 

It turns out divorcing social media is not easy.
​
It took weeks to wind down my active Words-with-Friends games so I wouldn’t mess up my stats. I whine about photos I want to post: a mama Muscovy with seven babies, rocket launches, our new grandbaby.  I feel guilty when someone says, “Did you see my post?” and I didn’t, especially if they posted on my timeline. 

I also feel disconnected. My church and town utilize FB to communicate events. I’m out of the loop with pet pages I interact with; friends are posting photos of their winter adventures. I’m missing all the action!  

So why extend my self-imposed fast? Because I’m becoming more present in my own daily life. I’m feeling less battered by grief for the pain of people I know only through FB, and less angry about scams, misinformation, political posturing.

Will I return? Yes.
​
When? We’ll see.