​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.

New year, new semester. Previous resolves to declutter, organize, write more, move more, eat less –only the desires are permanently ingrained. The actual pursuits wax and wane with no consistent rhythm. Still, there’s that persistent inner tug to begin my year with an improvement plan…

I never tracked my time on Facebook or playing Words, but I’ve been amazed at how a “few minutes” with either can morph into hours. Facebook may keep me connected, and Words is brain-stimulating, but they cost. If I stopped, would I be more productive?
​
Last weekend I posted that I’m taking a FB break and immediately signed out of my web account and apps. I’m finishing active Words games (to preserve my stats) but not starting new ones.  I feel some classic withdrawal symptoms, but I’ve packed away the Christmas decorations and finished a novel.
​
I’m encouraged. I can do this. For awhile, anyway.