Rain

 

It's the end of January, a month that at least in the locations I spent it, was bookended by weather extremes. I started off the month in Malaysia, arriving on the island of Langkawi on the second day of the new year. We spent our time sticky but content, exploring the islands' beach and forest landscapes. Fast forward to the end of the month and I am sitting at my kitchen table in Auckland, staring once again out the window at the rain, falling lightly for now. Of course, the rain hasn't exactly been known for its lightness over the past few days, and I have spent much of the weekend watching the news with an anxious eye and checking in with friends as floods have covered much of the city. For the first time in my adult life, I have feared rain and the damage and disruption it can bring. Although the worst appears to have passed, cleanup and implications will be ongoing. 

This first month of the year has contained a curious mix of days. I spent it partly spent counting down the days until I could return to routines and agency in Auckland, both of these having been largely taken from me while in Malaysia. Then came an almost two-week impasse, in which I spent far too long on hold, trying to ascertain the whereabouts of my missing suitcase (NB: Melbourne). I managed to catch up with friends, spend whole afternoons reading on the couch and weed my garden to (near) perfection. I knew these languorous days were never going to last, so I soaked them up as much as I could. The end of January has brought with it frantic Google searches for classroom decor, delightfully overwhelming conversations about pedagogy and many hours perched far too high on a ladder in the name of displaying hand-made bunting. Each set of days has brought with it new opportunities to grow, reflect and delight in aspects of God's world. I'm grateful (if only sometimes in hindsight) for all of it. 

February will bring my first ever day as a teacher, which will cascade into my first few weeks, and before I know it, the month will have passed and I will be wearily shaking my head over where the time has gone. Teaching is absorbing in a way that I crave: the organisation, the constant stimulation, the need to always be thinking on one's feet. I love this work that I came to in my twenty-sixth year and can't wait to begin it 'for real' on February 7th. 

What I don't want is for it to become my whole life. My best friend, S, surprised me this week, when she said that several times over the summer, she had found herself hoping, seemingly apropos of nothing, that I was writing. She told me that she senses an aptness to writing and me; my world seems to right itself when I am carving out space to do this thing that I love. She is right. The stilted tap of my fingers against my filthy keyboard on the average day sets my world to rights. Having 'spoken', however little, in this space, preferably near the beginning of the day, I am set to speak in all the myriad ways that are required of me for the rest of the day. In this way, writing is akin to my morning prayers. 

So here's what I've decided to make of S's observation and the deep resonance I felt as she shared it : a commitment to show up in this space on as close to a daily basis as I can manage, in slow increments of time. Ten minutes a day to start with, and no expectations as to how much I will write on a given day. Whatever comes, comes. But I make a commitment to show up in that morning space, and in doing so, show up to a truer version of myself and a deeper understanding of the God who made me this way.