In January, I was wordless. All around me, people named intentions, gave declarations of intended actions, or committed to following various practices and programs. I remained silent – not because I didn’t want to be part of the majority, but because I had absolutely nothing to say. No word of the year to be repeated, painted or photographed daily, no verse to contemplate for the next twelve months, no new memberships at places that promised to improve my flesh vessel if I agreed to turn up. I had nada. Zip.
Initially, I wasn’t bothered because the words always come eventually. But they didn’t. Nothing excited me, nothing struck a chord, nothing felt like it was exactly right for me. There wasn’t even anything I considered taking on because it might fit better later, when I’d practised it for a while – kind of the mental equivalent of losing five kilograms.
I knew this year was always going to be busy. I picked up the studies I put aside two years ago to follow a creative path for a while. That side quest gave me many wonderful things – my work in six anthologies, a book of short stories with my name on it as a dual major contributor, a poetry award in a national competition and a full manuscript that has so far been submitted to, and declined by, one traditional publisher and picked to pieces by a beta reading group who have my permission to tell me the truth. It’s been a great journey, and it certainly isn’t over, but it has definitely taken up a lot of my mind space and energy. Now I also have essays to write, academic journals to keep, facilitations to attend, and assessments to submit. But even with all those additional words flying around me, nothing showed itself to be the winged key I needed to give me something to say.
Until last weekend. I don’t know what was different about those two days. They looked like countless others. I had a singing lesson, bright and early Saturday morning. I went shopping for presents for my husband’s upcoming birthday. I got to church early on Sunday to work my way through an hour-long singing practice in the hope my voice would do its best for the congregation during the service, and the knowledge that the sound technician at the back of the room would make it appear that way even if it wasn’t. I wrote notes during the service to ensure I followed what is always an interesting and informative sermon. My husband and I visited our son for lunch, then went shopping together for craft supplies. Monday saw me line dancing with a group I’ve just met and then going to their once-a-month lunch at a local cafe. And somewhere along the way, two words floated into my head and stuck around, making their presence felt.
Do Better. That’s what they said. No clarifiers, just the intent that whatever it is I want to do, to try to make it better for me than the other options. Put in the effort to find exercise options. Accept the invitation to go somewhere. Say no to the three pm biscuit I know I don’t need and shouldn’t eat. Keep believing in myself and my writing. Don’t stop trying to sort the clutter in my house and my mind. Whatever I encounter or engage with, do it in a way that has a better outcome for me.
I know it’s June. I know the year is almost halfway over. I know in six months people will cast off this year’s intentions and don new ones. But it doesn’t matter that I’m late to the party. It only matters that I follow what my brain or perhaps even my heart has decided is the right path for me.
For those of you as stunned as I am that the year is somehow already halfway done, I wonder how your word/declaration/intention is going? Has it taken you where you expected? Or do you find yourself in a strange new place, wondering where to go from here? I have no idea where ‘Do Better’ will lead, but I hope in six months’ time I can confirm that even if I’m somewhere I didn’t ever think I’d be, it’s a place where making good choices for myself has become second nature.
A Glorious Mess 