December 13, 2020 by Amy
The Word of 2021
Years ago I went to a photography retreat that was women-only and it was amazing. I learned so very much there, not just about photography although that was great, but about me and about sisterhood and kindness and connection.
One of the things that came up was choosing a “word of the year.” Each participant was encouraged to choose a word that would help guide them through the decisions and daily life of the year ahead. Focus was a popular selection, for obvious reasons. I think that was mine that first year, and digging into it was like peeling back the layers of an onion. There is so much more to focus than twisting a lens barrel to bring the image you want to create into sharpened relief.
Since then, it has been hard for me to choose a word. Either no single word called out to me or it all felt sort of hopeless (especially true the year I lost my mother, both of my cats, and Tom Petty, along with a job I cherished because nothing is worth dealing with sexual harassment and misogyny…2017 can still go suck it). Every year I watch my old photography friends post their new words and what they mean. Sometimes they even share lovely vision boards that back up their word. The posts are filled with hope and promise, and all I could do was shrug and say, “No word speaks to me right now,” which is a very hard thing to accept as a writer and a lover of words.
But this year…this year is different. It all started back in the early days of the presidential campaign, when I was taking in all the sludge and shiny promises of both sides and wondering how it was all going to end. The Dems were fielding a hundred candidates and there was much infighting and arguing. I answered questions on a website that helped readers cut through the slogans and determine which platform aligned most with their values. My candidate didn’t emerge victorious from the primaries, nor did my second or third choice. The guy who did, though, eventually said something that struck me as so profound, and so in tune with my personal philosophy that I actually pulled out my writing notebook and copied it out by hand. I never do this, people. What he said was this:
The best way to move through pain, loss, and grief is to find purpose.
-Joe Biden
It really struck me, in that moment, that this is what I do and this is how I feel better in the middle of a sea of pain, and it’s been lingering ever since. I think it’s one of those things where if you are interested in buying a red car, all you see on the road are red cars. Ever since this quote struck like a gong in my heart, I see the word “purpose” everywhere.
After my mom died, I struggled to manage my grief for a long time. I was floundering without direction. I changed jobs and moved to a position where I was only writing, and working primarily from home. I spent a lot of days crying at my desk, or curling up in bed for hours in the middle of the day. It was only once I found purpose that I began to feel better, and it took a long time. Later, when my Gran died, I threw myself immediately back into work. I had learned that the best way for me to cope is to work through it, even if the work at first feels wholly unrelated to what I’m grieving. After Gran, I found solace in combing through yards of agricultural data state by state (I was at Monsanto at the time). My gran lived in a rural area, and while I didn’t realize it in the moment, learning about the most-produced crops for each state in this country that she loved so much was a way to continue feeling a connection to her.
Recently I began re-reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, after searching fruitlessly for The Artist’s Way on my crowded bookshelves. It was exactly what I needed to read right now (thank you, universe) and I did find The Artist’s Way a couple of days ago as I was pulling books to use as props for our winter Christmas village (literal props…they are stacked under the snow to raise some houses and shops up to different levels, a new purpose for these books!) but finished Bird by Bird first.
Early on, in the introduction before she even gets to the meat of the book, Lamott writes about her father, who was also a writer. She said, “So I grew up around this man who sat at his desk in the study all day and wrote books and articles about the places and people he had seen and known. He read a lot of poetry. Sometimes he traveled. He could go anyplace he wanted with a sense of purpose. One of the gifts of being a writer is that it gives you an excuse to do things, to go places and explore. Another is that writing motivates you to look closely at life, at life as it lurches by and tramps around.” (Emphasis mine.)
There’s my word again.
I’m thinking that this is one of those times when I need to quiet down and sit still. It’s like that scene in The Hunt for Red October when the Russian submarine fleet is blasting through the ocean pinging away so loudly they can’t hear if they’re hitting anything. “Hounds to the hunters,” is what the protagonist Jack Ryan surmises. They’re not trying to listen, they’re only trying to force Captain Ramius to attempt to escape via a route that they’re determining. I wonder if I’ve been pinging so loudly, flailing in an attempt to discover “my word” that I’ve been unable to really listen.
Last week on Instagram, an old colleague now living in San Antonio posted a photo of a new microbrew he was trying. The beer was called Purpose.
This week I read an article in an independent school magazine about the school-parent relationship. It’s important to work on this partnership, of course, although it’s equally important that the school establish that it’s the de facto leader in the partnership, given that a school is chock full of people who are experts in actually educating children unlike the majority of parents. The new approach, the article cautions, should be built around two key facets of school life: purpose and conduct.
As I proofed a faculty newsletter written by educators and for educators, in an article about the importance of our maker spaces and programs, I found this line: The fundamental goal of the Maker program is to develop the skills and confidence needed to build objects that serve a purpose in the students’ lives and in the lives of others.
While I listened (with parent hat) and took notes (with marcomm hat) as our Upper School counselor talked to a small parent group about anxiety and depression in students and adults, I heard this:
building connections and relationships, fostering wellness, finding purpose in life, and embracing healthy thoughts are all conducive to building resilience.
And last night, watching Star Trek Deep Space 9 with the Happy Family (a label Z has applied to us which is, thankfully, apt) I heard an impassioned plea from one of the characters that included, wait for it, purpose.
I’m telling you, this word is calling me. Hell, it’s doing more than calling me. It’s smacking me in the face with a baseball bat. Then it’s jumping up and down on my largely unconscious body and screaming, “Pay. Attention. To. Me.”
I can’t ignore it any more. My word for 2021, it appears, is purpose. I’m not even entirely sure I know what that means yet, or how it will play out. Is it a goal? Do I strive to live with purpose? Is it a challenge to discover what is the purpose of how I spend my days? Am I using it as a noun or as a verb? A purpose is a reason something exists, so perhaps I’m supposed to find the reason I exist? It all feels ambiguous right now. There is much to explore.
I’m going to try to do it here, writing and maybe sharing some photos. Because I don’t do that anymore and I miss it.
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