It’s 2019: three-hundred-sixty-five blank pages ahead. How shall I fill them? Will I reduce my consumption of anxiety-provoking news and current events? Will I use the new dumbbells I ordered last week? Will I add to my “home gym” (i.e., corner of the living room) the new weight bench I have my eye on? How about reverting to low-sugar and starch consumption: will I be successful at that, once again? Will I write (nearly) every day? Will I edit my NaNoWriMo “novel”? Will I get back in the kayak, even though I flipped it and landed in cold Lake Superior getting in, and getting out, tearing the seat of my pants in the process?
I failed so abysmally at kayaking, and yet, I was hooting and hollering and laughing at myself, as I splashed, and fumbled, and slipped on the rocks, attempting to right the damn thing and dump the gallons of water out. Despite my anxiety, and inability to glide across the lake effortlessly on my first go, I was thrilled that at fifty-five, I bought my first touring lake kayak and had the courage to get in it. It’s sitting in the snow-covered cabin, waiting for me to return, and try again this summer.
I feel optimistic about the new year. I don’t always feel optimistic at the start of a new year, so this bodes well. On January 1, 2017 and 2018, I was pretty much checked out, emotionally. I wasn’t in a pit of despair; I just wasn’t “there.” It’s interesting to feel like I’m beginning to stir, sniffing the scents outside my den, when we are here, in the dead of winter. I’m feeling optimism at age fifty-five, when a few years back, I thought the best was behind me. I am willing to allow, I may have been wrong about that.
Three-hundred-sixty-five blank pages in the year 2019 to be filled however I wish. Here we go.