The Saturday Diaries vol. 14

I have never been so happy to see a Saturday. Although this one will be filled with social events and work (I'm trying to make Sundays, or at least part of my Sundays, my sabbath during Lent), there is nonetheless a sticky-child-free joy to the day. 

My eight little people started school this week. They are absolutely gorgeous in their new uniforms and big grins. Every single one of them has settled well into school life, a fact for which both their parents and I breathe a prayer of thanks. Every single one of them has needed me in a way that is utterly exhausting. I spend days correcting pencil grips and letter formation, tucking in shirts, tying shoelaces and wiping lunch crumbs off faces. "Teacher, why are you washing your hands again?" asks one eagle-eyed little girl. Because you're all grubby little gremlins, I think to myself. Out loud, I say, "Oh, I'm always washing my hands!" 

New Entrants are so much fun, truly. We do a lot of singing and acting out of stories. They delight in rhyme and repetition, making multiple rounds of picture books fun for both me and them. They love to point out to me when they've done something right. "Look, teacher, criss-cross," says one little boy, pointing to his legs almost every time we come to the mat. They love to ignore me when they know they've done something wrong. The same little boy, who demonstrates perfect hearing at other points, ignores me with impressive nonchalance when confronted with crimes against book and neighbour.

Today, I am planning for one celebratory event with my friend, R, and entering into a celebratory event with my flatmate, M. My work to-do-list looms large but there's an invitation to find joy in it, I know. We live list-filled, messy, joyful lives and I'm going to lean into mine today. 

Cultural Highlights

Reading: Say it Again in a Nice Voice by Meg Mason. Oh, Meg. Wit and writer extraordinaire. I completely loved this book. Meg writes about the experiences of early (and young) motherhood with so much humour and honesty - I laughed out loud constantly while reading. This book also confirmed something about my future in an unexpected way - but also in a way that entirely makes sense for who I am. I'll cherish it forever for that reason. 

Watching: THIS IS NOT A FORMAL RECOMMENDATION. Now that I've put that disclaimer out there as clearly as I can, I can tell you that I loved the film, Anora. It was funny, gut-wrenching, beautiful storytelling. I was chatting to a friend yesterday about three possible interpretations of the final scene, all of which seem completely plausible. What a gift to be able to mull over something so meaty!

Listening: to a playlist curated by Holy Ghost Record Club called Bold Bars. Highly recommend it!

The Saturday Diaries vol. 13

It's 11:15am and I have risen from bed; my brushed teeth and I are ready to write. The weather is changing. I can feel it, the forecast says it, and so, too, do the olive leaves outside my window, signalling something with their stillness. 

There's a reason for my unreasonably late rousing this morning. It's been a funny old week. 

I had a work promotion confirmed and noted the congratulations and conspicuous lacks of congratulations with interest. I joyfully congratulated a friend on her engagement, realising that with it comes the arrival of a new chapter in her story. Time will tell if there's room for me in it. I created a profile on a dating app, allowing myself ten minutes a day to scroll through the (lacklustre) prospects. I have already spotted two men I know on there, one with his shirt off, confirming my previously-established suspicions about his unsuitability for me. 

The week ended with an ebullient Diwali celebration at my school. Students and staff alike wore their finest lehengas and saris and jewellery. I began my attempts to tie my own sari at 6, finally making it out of the house at 7:30, pleats intact and eyelids covered in gold. We sat through two assemblies (the dance-based one more exciting than the other) and no-one was happier that me to hear the bell ring at 3. 

I arrived home, exhausted and ready to put my feet up, to a note from a ghost. I didn't recognise it as such at first, thinking it was my flatmate who had left a pink post-it attached to a block of chocolate by my door. But no, it was the ghost, passing through, asking if I'd like to catch up for dinner on Monday. It would mean a great deal, the ghost wrote, to connect. 

How to respond to a ghost? Do I say yes to dinner? Propose an alternative? Politely inform the ghost that I'm no longer interested in these visits from the other side? 

I have been to dinner with a ghost once, almost five years ago. After abruptly and unceremoniously dropping me as a friend, my first ghost reached out a year later to ask if I wanted to have dinner. I did, a little, so I said yes. Dinner with the ghost consisted of chit-chat, interrogations about my love life and, close to the summation of the dinner, being informed that my eyebrows were uneven to the point that the ghost had been able to concentrate on little else during our time together. All contact with the ghost ceased until a year later, again, when I received an invitation to a wedding in the mail.

 

The thing I recall with a great stabbing pain is that I discussed this invitation from the first ghost with my newest one. "Why would she invite me to the wedding? She's wanted nothing to do with me for all this time, why now?" Ghost No. 2 understood Ghost No. 1's logic. Weddings are a time where people get reflective and think about the people who have influenced them. Ghost No. 1 was remembering me in a  positive light, Ghost. No. 2 said, the light in which I should have been seen all along. "You are gold," said Ghost No. 2. Apparently not, I thought at the time. Two years later, it would appear Ghost. No. 2 agrees with me. 

All of this was enough to send me to bed with sushi and a queue of Bunheads episodes last night. It kept me in bed this morning, too. I still don't know how to respond to the ghost. Perhaps one ghostly dinner is enough for a lifetime. Perhaps accepting a dinner invitation will allow the ghost to change form. 

I shall continue mulling these things during and after my shower, but before I go, a few notes from the week.

Reading: In an attempt to slow down my reading life and not consume books at too voracious a rate, I have set myself the challenge of reading only ONE fiction or non-fiction book per week (theological/spiritual books are exempted, because I usually finish these at a slower pace). My book last week was You Need a Budget - much needed, but not enough to sustain my interest for a week. My choice this week was infinitely better on the interest and, let's be honest, fun front - White Teeth by Zadie Smith. Oh Zadie. I cannot believe she was TWENTY-FIVE when this amazing novel was published. I'm not fussed about not being a wunderkind myself, but I certainly appreciate them when I come across them, particularly if they're providing me with engrossing, astute and wildly funny novels. I am loving Zadie Smith's London and its characters and shall be returning to them this afternoon. 

Watching: CSI. Have you ever seen CSI? It is ridiculous and poorly-lit and impossible in so many ways, but it has been exactly what I've needed this week. Brains scattered all over a room and blood congealed in a corner? No problem - the CSIs are on it. The seedy Las Vegas setting makes for a great backdrop and the formulaic storylines have proved to be the balm of Gilead I needed this week. Plus, as with all long-running procedurals, there are some great guest stars. Mae Whitman! A pre-Office John Krasinski! That guy from Friday Night Lights! It's a guaranteed good time. 

Listening to: a great new-to-me podcast called Spilled Milk in which the two hosts take a deep dive into something food-related. Last week it was carob. The week before it was monkey bread (google it). Their enthusiasm and inevitable unearthing of something fascinating makes for delightful listening and much food-related googling. Look it up! 

28

R and I, lounging in a truly strange exhibit at the Auckland Art Gallery

I turned 28 last week. Learning from past mistakes, I threw myself a party complete with pink balloons and pizza. 

"It looks like I've decorated for a four year old's birthday," I joked to my flatmate while blowing up confetti-filled balloons. 

"I like it," she said, puffing into the last of the pink globes. 

"So do I," I admitted, surveying our handiwork. It was all very pink and glittery and it all felt very me. 

On my birthday, I walked through the streets of the central city with my friend, R. As we searched for a spot to read quietly in the sun (she knows me well), I turned to her and said, "I'm 28 and I'm so happy."

Without missing a beat, she said, "You know, I can sense that." 

It was the best gift she could have given me. To know that this profound sense of contentedness and ease-in-self can be felt by my loved ones is to know it's not all in my head. Cracked vessel though I am, this freshly-stoked joy fire within can be seen and felt from the outside. 

My 28th birthday featured lemon cake and cute cards and late-night ice-skating. It was a glorious, genuine, joyful celebration of 28 years of life and it came at the end of a particularly hard year. That buoyancy and happiness I felt while roaming familiar streets with R was hard-won. 

***

As a newly-minted 28 year-old, I am obviously a sage and therefore qualified to dispense advice, safe to be swallowed whole without hesitation. 

I jest, of course, but I have learned a lot in the past year, many of the lessons being - here's that word again - hard-won. I'll type them here lightly and leave them for your perusal and scrutiny; my 28-year-old self won't be bothered either way. 

***

28 Things I've Learned in 28 Years

1. You are allowed to change your mind. About people, places, TV shows, and jumpsuits. This does not make you an unsteady person, just a growing one. 

2. Just as you will change your mind about people, some of them will change their minds about you. Sometimes, this re-evaluation will occur simultaneously, as if the two of you are coal-miners emerging from a cave and blinking at each other in the harsh new light. Sometimes, only the other party will re-assess. This may hurt, but it will also, eventually, be okay. 

3. Don't knock your hometown. You may find yourself back there one week in the springtime and be brought to your knees by all the renewal you see around you.

4. When people show you who they really are, believe them. 

5. You are allowed to turn down nice boys simply because you have no romantic interest in them. Politeness, but no apology is needed. 

6. "Life does not consist in an abundance of books" Luke 12:15 (Jovita Manickam paraphrase) 

7. You are allowed to both have and articulate needs. This does not make you needy, it makes you human. 

8. Let people look after you. 

9. Life's too short to pretend you're okay with a potential paramour's obsession with Warhammer. Someone else will be into that, but that someone is not you. 

10. When people tell you how they really feel, believe them. 

11. Spring for the nice moisturiser. 

12. Your hunch that you should use your leisure time to engage with stories and perspectives that differ from yours? It's a good one. Keep at it. 

13. The accrual of years does not equate to the accrual of wisdom. It is possible (and surprisingly common) to have one without the other. 

14. Your voice will emerge as you practice saying things. It's okay if you sometimes croak on the path to clarity. 

15. The kids are alright. Despite the horror news stories and stats on anxiety and depression, there are some who are being raised as resilient, committed disciples whose passion for Jesus burns brighter than you'd ever dared hope. Pray for them, encourage them and cheer them on. God has marvels He's yet to perform. 

16. There are very few times in life where you will make a decision once and never revisit it. Convictions of all kinds require constant shoring up. 

17. You have a figure and this is good. The fact that a particular size of jumpsuit does not accommodate your hips means only that you need to find a bigger size. Wear that bigger size and admire the curves that God gave you. 

18. You are capable of enduring months-long heartache that has you waking and walking through your days in a daze. Though it seems impossible, with the newfound clarity you've acquired on the other side, you will be grateful for having gone through that period and all that you've learned. 

19. Be on the lookout for the surprising goodness of God. 

20. Record everything - if only for yourself. 

21. People will sometimes regard your wonder and curiosity about the world with disdain. This is entirely their problem, not yours. 

22. It is always, always worth taking a moment to pause and consider whether an action is kind. 

23. Take photos sometimes. You will enjoy seeing how happy you were and how much you loved the people around you. 

24. Celebrate yourself, and invite others into that celebration. You may not yet have hit the markers that our culture tends to throw lavish parties for (marriage, babies) but you have many things in your life that you can lavishly celebrate. Make the most of every opportunity to do so. 

25. When you are with a friend, make it your goal to be wholly attentive to them. So much of friendship is mutual seeing. 

26. Routines lead to flourishing. Do everything in your power to maintain yours, adapting as and when needed. 

27. Lean into seasons as much as you can. Winter is for watching Gilmore Girls in your pyjamas. Spring is for long walks around the neighbourhood. 

28. You might spend an entire lifetime following Jesus only in your twenty-eighth year to be absolutely bowled over by the depth of his love for you. Relish it, weep over it, stay in it. 

Overwhelm

I am overwhelmed this afternoon, sitting in the smallest sliver of sunlight in my room, trying to tame my to-do list. I am pausing for a moment to write this, because I must write daily - that is just what I do. Most of my writing of late has been done in my journal, and that is just fine by me. I've had a lot to say to the Lord. But I wanted the briefest of records of what it feels like to exist in the midst of this overwhelm, right now. 

It is report season and I have written barely any general comments. I am behind on my school-mandated 'learning posts' (no-one can convince me of their utility, but complete them I must). It looks like my environment group may not be able to attend a special event this term after all, as the result of me dropping the ball on my comms. Green Week looms large in Week 7 on the school calendar, while testing deadlines call to me this week. Work has curled around every part of my mind and is squeezing, hard. Its tendrils pierce even my sleep. 

This is only part of what is contributing to the ache in my head and jaw and shoulders. I have found myself in yet another situation with a guy friend where he simultaneously enjoys my company and is ashamed to be seen in my company. (Obviously, I'm not going to put up with that and plan on staying away from him from here on out, but the sting is there, nonetheless.) Two friends have received happy news on the romance and family front; of course, I am absolutely thrilled for them and can say in complete truth that I'm not regarding them with any envy. But it also prompted another teary walk around the neighbourhood, thanking the Lord for my friends' good news and asking if it could please, possibly, be my turn soon. (I've yet to hear back.) And then there's the situation with a friend that's too tender and fraught for me to write about here. Suffice to say, it's a spectre that haunts my already-overwhelmed days. 

Overwhelm is a part of life. It's cloying to say so, I know, but I can't help but state the obvious in my current state. Overwhelm is likely going to keep me company this week. Thankfully, so is the grace of God. 

The Saturday Diaries vol. 12

It's Writer's Festival weekend, yay! Even the birds seems to be chirping their approval; I have a particularly vocal duo (band? troupe?) singing away outside my window as I huddle over my desk. It is properly cold, in this Auckland transplant's opinion, and I am alternating between typing and cupping my hands around my tea mug for warmth. 

My friend, L, is up to take part in the weekend's festivities with me - "Jovita, it's our Coachella," she said while buying tickets. I am very much looking forward to traipsing around Auckland's city centre with L. Queen Street and its surrounds were our daily stomping grounds during that first year in Auckland, and we'll no doubt have much to reminisce over as we return to its grimy glory. 

The event comes at the end of a particularly piecemeal week. Despite being absolutely fine on Sunday, I woke up with what I knew were the beginnings of a cold on Monday, but chose to ignore all symptoms and went to school anyway. Cut to me sneezing all over the place and asking my class if they could please, please take Miss Manickam's sore head into consideration as they went about their work; I had just enough strength to gather up supplies at the supermarket before collapsing into bed for the next couple of days. 

I'm feeling much better, on the whole. Still a little snotty and lethargic, as one is wont to be after coming down with a cold, but largely on the up. Being propped up in bed with nowhere to go naturally lends itself to some serious introspection and reflection, and I've been engaging in both this week, trying to honestly consider the contours of my life and see if things are shaping up as they ought. The answer to this, I've come to the gently-startling realisation, is 'no.' Acedia has crept in. Essential things have been lowered in priority, shortcuts have been taken here and there, and all of this has led to barely-held-together days that I know do not align with my values. 

The good thing about coming to such a realisation, of course, is that now I can do something about it. As I was having my quiet time this morning, I felt prompted to offer up specific prayers of petition. Okay, I thought; I began to write out in painstaking detail what exactly it was I was asking the Lord to help me with on this day and in this season. As I wrote, I got the sense that these prayers really were being seen by the Lord - that they were as close to his heart as they were to mine. 

Joy is a powerful place to work from. So is contentment and so is integrity. I am seeking to cultivate all three on the daily and I can't wait to taste their fruit. 

Reading: one of Julia Turner's recent recommendations on Culture Gabfest, an expansive and compelling work of non-fiction entitled, Worn: A People's History of Clothing. Sofi Thanhauser examines her lifelong love for clothes as she considers the history of five fabrics: linen, cotton, silk, synthetics, and wool. I have been alternately horrified and delighted by the practices surrounding these materials and it has made me want to make my own wardrobe choices a lot more carefully. 

Listening to: The new Taylor Swift album (yes, I've come around). But also Maggie Rogers' truly excellent new album, Don't Forget Me. Favourites include 'If Now Was Then,' 'Never Going Home,' and especially, 'The Kill.' 

Watching: After an extended hiatus, I have renewed my Netflix subscription and been reunited with my beloved Gilmore Girls. I've missed their quips and Stars Hollows' warmth so much. I know that it's all a construction, but it's a construction I'll willingly enter into for the upcoming winter months. 

Holiday Time - Essay no. 7

It's the holidays and I can't keep a grip on time. The idea of 'gripping' time is, of course, ridiculous; I can imagine Jenny Odell, Oliver Burkeman and Tish Warren all wearily shaking their heads at me over such a thought. Time is not here for me to corral or bend to my tiny will. It cannot be tamed, tackled or teased into serving my purposes. 

What I mean to convey in my opening statement is that the school holidays - those blissfully gluestick-free weeks in between each term - upend my conceptions of time. Time is usually something I'm terrified of mismanaging or losing; I'm prone to treating it like a child I've assumed responsibility for. In the first week of the holidays, as my alarm is switched off and incoming emails dwindle to mailers from publishing companies, I relinquish my grip on my time-child, eventually getting to the point where I lose her entirely. 

Still, something has to occupy my days. Saturday morning brought with it a take-all-the-breath-out-of-you conversation. 'I'd like to hear from you less,' the other party concludes. Replaying it later that day makes me throw up in my mouth. There is no squirrelling out of the situation; hours of internal processing have been lost trying to make sense of shifting dynamics, culpability and lost love. Further hours lie ahead, I know, but in lieu of lying in the fetal position 24/7 and losing all grip on reality, I've opted to pivot, hard,  towards one of my favourite retreats: reading. 

A stack of books more than a foot tall sits to my left, waiting to be written up before being re-shelved and returned to personal and public libraries. I have lost huge chunks of time to Jewel's fantastic memoir,  more afternoons still to Bridget Jones and her crew in Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. After finding the exact book that I was up to in the series in an op-shop on Thursday (could there be any surer pointer to one's next reading choice?), I returned to Three Pines and a down-but-not-out Inspector Gamache as he investigates yet another murder in the otherwise idyllic Quebecois town. This morning, after putting on a load of washing, I sat at the kitchen counter with the final pages of Hilary Mantel's Giving Up the Ghost, aching and in awe at her commitment to bearing witness to her life. 

What has occupied my time less, for reasons both grasped and hazy, is writing. Keeping my writing appointment this morning has required that I ignore the whorls of hair swirled across the light-grey tiles of my bedroom and hang out the washing after rather than before church. Domestic rites have held more than their usual allure for me recently; I crave the sense of creating order from chaos, at a much faster clip than what is usually required to order my slovenly thoughts. Mantel is responsible for bringing me back to my desk and re-girding myself for the task. "I am writing in order to take charge of [my] story," she says. It's time for me to return to the same. 

Mercifully, I have not been left entirely to my own mind or book stack this week. My youngest brother, Jeremiah, has been up from Christchurch, a gift for which we can thank the education scheduling powers-that-be. I have dragged him out for urban walks; he has introduced me to a life-changing device that allows me to play music through my car speakers. The older sister/younger brother dynamic lives on. My friend, C, invited me round for a delicious dinner and hang on Thursday. I sat cross-legged on her couch and nibbled happily at white chocolate & raspberry slice as we discussed the latest season of Taskmaster and the ads we are now subjected to as Women of a Certain Age. 

The upcoming week will bring with it a return to reality, or something like it. My mind is filled with to-do-lists, starting with what I'm hoping to achieve in my classroom on Tuesday. Stapling art to the walls and de-cluttering overburdened shelves is no miracle cure, but it'll go a long way in easing this overburdened teacher's mind. 

Time is reaching out for me in the dark; I reach back. 

Blessings - Essay no. 6

Write about your blessings. About what it was like to wake up today, about the people you love, about the songs that have lifted your spirits. Write about the wind in the trees, or rebirth in spring, or of freedom. Write about whatever gives you life, which - especially in troubled times, we remember - is so precious. 

Prompt written by Mavis Staples in The Isolation Journals, Suleika Jaouad's Substack. 

My Saturdays of late have been drenched in pleasure. Slow starts have cascaded into long walks, conversations with friends, good films and even better food - sometimes made by my own hands, often others'. I move, on the sabbath, as I imagine a bird does on a morning after rain: slowly, and with reassurance of continued bounty on which to feast. This has happened almost without my intending, although it has not escaped my notice. 

My sabbaths are heavily guarded, I remarked to a friend, and essential with the busyness of my weeks. If I don't set aside this one day on which I don't check my work emails or tweak my planning, I lose touch with reality beyond teaching, and the world beyond the four walls of my classroom. On the sabbath, I sleep and play and read for extended periods as on no other day of the week. If, on first waking, my body protests, I listen, roll over, and return to the land of sleep. I allow myself culinary treats - a pastry, a coffee, a cookie. I turn my eyes and ears and hands towards beauty. 

This sabbath practice has kept me human for almost a year now. I can no longer imagine my weeks without it, nor do I want to. But I am aware of contentment seeping into my life not just from this one full cup, a respite, a well, an anomaly. 

Contentment creeps in at school, when a child hugs me as if she can't help it, arms wrapped firmly around my waist. It takes me by surprise when I stretch my legs in bed at the end of a long day, happily aching from a day's labour in heels. I find contentment in a patch of afternoon sunlight on my orange armchair; it arrives at just the right time for me to sink into it with a book. My physical surroundings, with their quotidian, suburban beauty, feed contentment continuously. On walks, I ponder and notice, along with Mary Oliver, "the sweet, electric drowse of creation." 

Pay attention/be astonished/tell about it writes Mary Oliver in that same poem. I will.