I don’t really do resolutions, but I like to reflect on how I spent the last year and think about what I envision for the next.

Hmmm…what do I hope for the next year. An end to the pandemic, but that’s realistically not going to happen because too many people in this country are self-centered asshats who are incapable of doing the bare minimum of taking care of others in their communities. And, yes, I realize that the pandemic won’t actually end until the entire world is vaccinated…or worldwide infection is managed. An end to the pandemic is also out of my control; I just feel compelled to complain about it.

I hope to have my remote writing program expanded to the entire maximum facility I’m currently in, as well as the federal and out-of-state prison I have my sights on. There is an additional bonus system I’m hoping for, but I don’t want to get greedy. Along the same prison lines, in the next year I hope to see my successes for what they are…successes. I’m extraordinarily quick to second guess or dismiss my accomplishments. While I doubt I’ll stop doing that entirely, I hope to get a little better at it. I hope that I can feel good about what I’m doing…that I’m enough, even as the world may very well crumble around me.

I look forward to a new opportunity in the realm of politics. I’d told myself I would never join another Board. When I walked away from the last one I asserted it wasn’t for me. But now this new gig is on my lap and it has such potential that I’m compelled to jump in both feet like I do. It would be building something, which I love. It is also a way to join forces with other, probably, like-minded people in enough ways to make this interesting…hopefully important. And I’ll likely learn some things as well, which is always a draw for me.

I ended up joining a book club…sort of. It’s online. I’ve never joined a book club before…too much pressure, and after my hospital jaunt two years-ish ago, my brain hasn’t been able to manage things as well. I feel stronger these days, and it kinda crept up on me suddenly one day that I am. I’m able to handle text I couldn’t for the longest time. The first book was good. The second one is massive, so I’m feeling the pressure to read it. The club focuses on social justice and reading authors from marginalized communities…totally my bag. At some point my remote book discussion will happen at the same maximum. I have the same author goals, so it will be good to explore some of these writers. I have my own that I’ve read, but I won’t pretend to be an authority. The book club has mostly been my only social thing. It occurred to me during the first meeting that it was…so sad…this pandemic is brutal.

I wrote a book. It needs to be edited. I’m resigned to doing it myself. I can’t imagine I’m going to sell many, so I’m doing things as much on the cheap as I can. If I hired an editor…something I’m not even sure how to go about, I don’t feel confident I’d recoup those funds. I’m proud of what I wrote, and it gives me a little buzz every time I look at the draft. It’s formatted to look like a book now, which is such a cool thing. I never saw myself as writing a book. Mostly I thought to do so because many of my students have dreams of publishing. It’s easier for me to speak about a process I’ve experienced. I hope in the next year I get the book off and for public consumption. I’m also in the throws of a second one, which is a very different project. I hope to have that one finished as well. Neither of these books are terribly long. The second is a kind of art project in a way. I wasn’t sure how it would turn out, but lately I’ve had a clear picture of what I want for this thing. Thanks to a friend, I’m newly excited about it. I think it will come together well.

Since I’m already riding the writing hope train, I hope to go back to writing more fiction…maybe some poetry. I’m not much of a poet, but I enjoy it, and days when I’m not feeling mentally together enough to sustain creativity, banging out a poem can scratch that productivity itch.

In the next year I hope to be a better parent, which probably isn’t fair. It’s not that I’m a bad one, but I’m definitely not winning any awards or gold stars. But at the same time, there are moments that I’ve done well. I know I’ve done well. I hope to weigh those moments as having just as much value. My husband is the fun one. He’s the one with the activities and exciting things. That’s not my shtick. It will never be my shtick. I guess in the next year I want to see my role in my children’s lives as equally important to the fun. I know abstractly what my kids need from me. I want to see that as enough…that I don’t have to be all things…that I’m enough just as I am. As I write this my seven-year-old walked into the room, snuggled into me, scratching my shoulder (I’m a huge fan of back scratches), asking me how I slept. I’m raising him to be that kind of human. My daughter is the same way. I don’t know what their futures hold, but such moments are important.

I hope to get outside more in the next year…laughable, I know. I’m not friends with the outdoors. It’s mostly that acquaintance that is tolerated, even though I know objectively they are a good egg. I hope to do better.

I hope to keep laughing with my husband. I don’t think people realize how funny he is. He tends to be reserved and straight-laced, but he has this desert dry humor. For a long time things weren’t easy. Our marriage was fine, but other things impacted it nonetheless. There is laughter once again. I love that I’m probably the only one who knows this about my favorite person in the entire world. No one makes me laugh like he does.

I’m not totally sold on this one, but I hope to go back to the twice a month gig at my town’s food pantry. It will depend on what infection rates are. Ideally, I’d be able to return with my kids. They really loved volunteering there, and they were actually helpful.

Probably the biggest hope of all of that is to practice kindness to myself… more forgiveness of things I’ve convinced myself are a wrong, but actually aren’t. I brutalize myself over things I need to let go or not worry about in the first place…and then I brutalize myself for brutalizing myself. It’s a mess. For my own sanity I need to work on this. It’s not healthy for me, and if my kids pick up on it…which they probably do because they are kids, then it’s not healthy for them to see me modeling that kind of behavior. I’m not sure where it comes from. I kinda know, but not really. But whatever the impetus, I hope to be in a better place on this front by the turn of another year.

I hope to always value the support I have around me. I don’t interact much with people these days, but I’ve met some truly fantastic people along my life’s travels. I hope they know how much I appreciate them. In the next year I want to be certain. Life is short and can be hard. It’s too short and too hard to allow those I feel connected to to not realize their importance in my life. I’m usually pretty good about this, but we are still in a pandemic, and I think this specific thing often slips through my fingers as I lose track of days and muddle through.