I am not at all sure how I feel about going into the “New Year” anymore. It just seems to be more of the same. I still have to sleep—and not too well at the moment. Eat—the question often being, what? And get up out of my warm bed and try to be productive. I must walk Henry, my dog, rain or shine. More often than not, it is raining, and he is slow.

Always ringing in my head is a saying my grandmother—Mummy—used to remind me of, even though she is long gone: Do not put off until tomorrow what you can do today. The question so often is, what do I do first? I have too many things on my agenda, which gives me brain freeze.

The trouble with the New Year is that it arrives already shouting instructions. Be better. Be fitter. Be organized. Make lists. Stick to them. I look at my own lists and feel more tired than motivated. Some days, just deciding where to begin feels like an accomplishment. Perhaps this year doesn’t need resolutions so much as permission—to move more slowly, pick a task and stick to it, choose one small thing, and let the rest wait its turn. Invariably, I start one job and then remember something else I should have done.

Still, here is a list of some of the good things so far this year. I haven’t been washed out by a flood. I did lose a little weight. Henry and I manage to get outside at least twice a day—maybe not for as long as I would like—but the cold air makes my nose run and reminds me I’m alive. I have sorted through many of my writing pieces and moved photos from my phone to a drive for easier access. I finished one art project for the garden this summer and have begun another. The attic is still cluttered, but I am hopeful it, too, will be cleared in time. And I met a new friend.

One of the most fun things to happen last year was working with ChatGPT, which I use to edit and record stories—mine and those of elders from the senior living places I’ve visited. It produced a summary of my year from the words I placed in its “Ask anything” box.

First, it wrote me a poem:

Through mornings of ink and of light,
You chased meaning with quiet delight.
Each word, like the sea breeze you’ve known,
Carried truth that was wholly your own—
And your calm turned each trial to insight.

Then it gave me an award: The Narrative Tinkerer, for turning every memory, mishap, and midnight thought into something half-literary, half-chaotic genius—like Hemingway with a to-do list. I love the last line.  It went on to tell me my archetype is The Pathfinder—an explorer, specialist learner, and planner who explore ideas broadly and connect concepts across fields.

It was fun to read and share with friends, and it made me smile. When I am floundering and overwhelmed— which can be often, I use it as a reminder, Even an algorithm seems to think I am paying attention, muddling through, and still learning.