I'll start with the oldest cliché in the book: what a year.
My brain is stuffed with teaching techniques and small-person anecdotes, my arms remember what it's like to have moved house twice, and my toenails are crispy (don't ask). This was the year in which I began my teaching career, transitioned from living alone into a house of seven, read 121 books, navigated changing friendships, got into a car crash, dealt with multiple in-house floods, spoke at my church, worked twelve-hour days, got Covid for the first time and learned to like (some) board games. Keep in mind that this is not an exhaustive list.
The thing that I kept thinking about as I was pottering around my parents' house, trying to think about what to write in this post, was all the different states I've been in this year.
February found me in the grip of new teacherdom, a highly productive, highly stressful, highly unsustainable state that involved running on little sleep and poor nutrition, fuelled by the feeling that I wasn't doing enough. The firm words of friends and mentors and the establishment of a sabbath finally allowed me to experience a gentler, happier version of new teacher life.
July found me crying at a petrol station after crashing my car in the process of moving to my new house which I was not at all sure about. As I sorted the insurance and cleaned the last of the cobwebs from my old place, I found myself grappling with my total lack of control over what the new season would hold. A car crash - my first - seemed like an ominous sign. I felt small and alone; I felt God was ambivalent and silent.
In September, I had one of my least favourite birthdays. I made all the wrong decisions both in the lead-up to and on the day - an escape to Christchurch provided some much-needed distance and time for reflection.
December stretched interminably on. Perhaps this was just as well, as it allowed for me to inhabit a ridiculous number of states: 'I just need you to colour in for a bit', 'I'd like someone in management to give me a straight answer', 'I'll pass on Christmas spirit this year, thanks.'
So many modes of being. So many challenges. So much change.
But - and this is important - so much beauty, too.
This was the year in which I found vocational satisfaction. I love my job. I get up almost every day excited to teach and build relationships with my kids - they delight me and make me laugh every day. I also can't wait to keep trying new things and both broadening and deepening my practice in the coming years. As I said to a friend last year while training, I feel ambitious again, and I really, really like that feeling.
I have made new friends through my flats and church. Many nights have been spent laughing over ice-cream scooped into mugs and shared meals around the dinner table. My friends have helped me pack, accompanied me on walks, advised me, set me up (hilariously unsuccessfully, but still). Although I've experienced relational fractures, I've also experienced the complicated beauty of repair - the honesty, the steps towards each other when you'd rather turn away, the going over worn territory as and when required. It was a year that showed me that the practice, art and subsequent glory of kintsugi might apply to relationships, too.
In 2023 I began to write again. I wrote on the corner couch, I wrote on the stairs, I wrote at my desk. The quality of my writing is no doubt something I will lament when I look back on it in a few years, but how thrilling to have made a start, to have produced something at all.
Physical beauty has been abundant this year, too. I have marvelled at the trees behind my classroom, watching them change with the seasons each morning. I now live on the same street as one of the prettiest parks in Auckland; my daily loops around it have brought me so much joy. I have looked at the beautiful faces of my students, my coworkers, my flatmates, my family, my friends, S (particularly dear). Opportunities for awe at God's physical creation have abounded, and I have tried to make the most of each one.
Challenge, growth and beauty have existed alongside each other to make 2023 one of the most significant years of my life. I find myself weepy and grateful on the couch.
Thanks be to "the humble Redeemer, who gives us rain, the snow, and all things in between." (James McBride)
P.S. To S, if you are reading this - thank you for everything. Your presence, encouragement, fortitude and faith made this year what it was.
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