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. 

A Life's Work - Essay no. 5

For 50, 60, sometimes 70 hours a week, I am a teacher. On good weeks, most of this time is spent actually teaching or planning for teaching. On not-as-good weeks, it's spent replying to emails, ticking boxes and staring at various calendars, trying to figure out which deadlines I've yet to meet. I'll let you guess what the balance is between good and not-as-good. 

Given that teaching occupies my hands, my head, my body and even my subconscious (I dream of parents and planning docs) for so much of my time, I guess it's a little strange that you wouldn't know it from reading this blog. References to teaching, I've discovered while scrolling through the archives, are scant. 

Part of it is that I view writing as a reprieve from my work. For these thirty minutes every morning, I do not assume the identity that I inhabit for most of the day. I am simply myself, sitting bleary-eyed at my desk, trying to convey something of what I'm dreaming, planning, thinking about. Although I am always dreaming, planning and thinking about things related to school, for thirty minutes, I try to set those particular concerns aside. 

Part of it is that I don't want my whole life to revolve around teaching. I see some teachers at my school whose lives have been consumed by their work. "I can't not look at my phone when a new email comes through," one tells me, a slightly manic look in her eye. Actually, I've discovered, you can. Turning off email notifications on my phone was one of the best choices I made last year. No-one has died or even been greatly offended because I haven't responded immediately to an email received after 8:00PM. 

Teaching, particularly in the primary context, is a profession dominated by women. Many of these women are either mothers or older single women, a phenomenon of which I was aware even before officially entering the teaching workforce. "It's a good career for mothers and spinsters," I said to my friend, M, when I decided to retrain. "So I'm covered either way." Most of the administrative work in my school is shouldered by women who are either single or whose children have left home. However, the single women bear, quite literally, twice the burden of those with families, overseeing two teams instead of one. 

I balk against this. As a single woman who could see herself being single for quite some time, I resist the idea that I have to sacrifice every aspect of my life on the altar of teaching. Just because I am single doesn't mean that I don't have other legitimate things to occupy my time. I get to rest. I get to enjoy hobbies. I get to invest in other relationships. 

And yet... there is a part of me that recognises the significance of teaching as a vocation. The time, love, expertise and attention invested into your students and your potential disproportionate effect (for better or worse) on the rest of their lives is no small thing. They are part of what makes teaching, as Rachel Cusk once said of motherhood, 'a life's work'. 

***

There is nothing like being in a classroom full of kids hungry for your care and attention. To sit in front of them on Day One, with their shoes not-yet-scuffed and their eyes wary and anxious, is to be confronted with something holy. Will you love me? They ask with their eyes. Are you safe? Are you on my side? The answers they receive and perceive to these questions will shape the course of their year, maybe even their lives. 

I do my best to shoulder the weight of my job without crumbling beneath it. On a daily basis I greet, smile at, instruct, laugh, correct (both gently and firmly), train, encourage, discourage, joke with, read to, invite, coach, look in the eye, hug and explain things to my students. I seek to shape them into better versions of themselves, while never giving them the impression that my love for them is contingent on their performance. 

***

We have started off the year with descriptive writing and spoken a lot about the role of the five senses in describing well. "What does it look like? Feel like? Smell like? Sound like? Taste like?" I have asked a thousand times in the last few weeks. 

So much of teaching is seeing. Yes, I see you, quiet girl who struggles with English, but whose Maths is spectacular and demonstrates a deep knowledge of how numbers work. I see you, boy who has been labelled "naughty" almost from birth, and who is desperate to claim almost any other label. I see you, girl who receives no discipline at home, and who needs a firm adult to provide structure and consequences. 

I see, too, the panoply of events that unfolds in my class on a weekly, daily, or even hourly basis. Just this week, we had several lost teeth and an actual foot to the mouth in the swimming pool! A squad of bodyguards was formed to protect our class mascot, Avan, the stuffed avocado. Descriptions and acrostic poems were written, maths strategies consolidated. A new student's baby-ish tones and requests were giggled at by the rest of his classmates. "Can't" was misspelled, with offensive consequences. 

One of the great privileges of teaching is that, if I let them, my students see me, too. A Deputy Principal, whose daughter is in my class, came in to see me on release on Wednesday. We talked through an issue related to an upcoming field trip and as she was leaving, she paused by the door. "Stacey* came in the other day and she was like, do you know what the best thing is about Miss Manickam? It's that she reads. She reads every day!" My DP was mock-offended by the fact that her own daughter hadn't seen the fact that she read, but was clearly impressed by the reading of her teacher. In me, Stacey had found a kindred spirit. 

***

I am going on a field trip today. It's my first one in charge, my name and signature on all the procedure forms. 28 students today are dependent on my love and care and corralling to stay safe. One is in a moonboot. A few have a tendency to wander off. I am running a list of things to do at school in my mind, over and over to make sure that we have everything covered. 

The kids have no sense of burden about today. They have been breathless when they approach me on the playground, sleepless with excitement. This is good and right.

Lord-willing, we will learn something, get our hands dirty and stand in the sunshine. We will experience joy as we do all of these things. 

At some point in the day, I will stand with my hands on my hips and survey the 28 small humans in front of me. I will smile and give thanks. I will get back to work. 

*Not her real name.

Lilies & Sparrows - Essay no. 4

"Don't you know? 

Your Father in heaven knows just what you need and

Seek him first

And everything else that you need will be given.

Don't you see?

He loves you much more than lilies and sparrows.

Come and rest.

Don't waste today being scared of tomorrow."

- Lillies & Sparrows, Jess Ray 

I see him as I near my house. "Oh no!" The words leave my mouth though there's no-one around to hear them. 

He's lying on his side on the concrete, bright green wings shockingly vibrant considering that all breath has left his body. 

I kneel to pay my respects. Ants have begun to circle his head. 

I search around for something to pick him up with; I can't leave him on the footpath. I'm crying as I locate a piece of bark. 

I walk back and bend down towards him again, trying to angle the bark just-so to scoop him up. My first attempt doesn't work because his skull has stuck slightly to the concrete. I cry a little more. 

My second attempt is better; I use the bark to lift his head and my hand to cradle the rest of his body. 

His wings are the softest things I've ever felt. How strange that only his death would allow me to touch them. 

I lay him under a bush and dig my fingers into the surrounding soil. Sprinkle it over his body. Stand. 

I have to get ready for Bible Study.

The gentlest whisper floats through my mind as I walk back inside, accompanied by a holy shiver: this is how I feel, too. 

***

Jess Ray's 'Lilies and Sparrows' has been the song of much of my January and February. It immediately stuck out to me on a first listen of MATIN: Rest and pulled me out of black holes on hard days. 

My Father in heaven cares more for me than these little sparrows I so love, I thought. I can get through the day. 

As February dragged on, requiring more of me than even last year, I began to doubt my God who cares for lilies and sparrows. Where is God in the midst of this drudgery? Could my class be any more challenging? Was I ever going to feel like I was on top of things? 

Lilies and sparrows ceased to flit through my mind. I dreamt only of emails and parents and principals. 

Towards the end of February, I began to find my footing in the new school year. I found strategies that worked for (some) tricky students; I committed to always observing a full day of Sabbath on Saturdays; I closed my laptop at 8. I began to feel more human. 

On Wednesday, when I embarked on my walk, I had been paying particular attention to the birds. Lines of swallows perched on the phone lines; a rosella glanced cautiously up at me as he flitted across the path. And then, at the end, there was my little green friend lying motionless on the pavement. 

True, he wasn't a sparrow. I flicked through the pages of my New Zealand bird book as I re-heated noodles and discovered he was a Rifleman. A juvenile. 

Riflemen are plentiful in New Zealand, particularly in Auckland. One could say they are as ordinary as sparrows. 

And yet, his death showed how extraordinary he really was. There was nothing ordinary about his death. It was right for me to kneel and cry and look at this beautiful bird that had, only some hours before, been puffed with life. Our Father in heaven cares for him. 

***

March has begun and I'm looking ahead at one of my fullest weeks. Work continues to haunt my dreams; I'm reluctant to leave the house for church this morning. 

But the God of lilies and sparrows is still my God, even on this, a hard day, looking ahead at what I know in many ways will be challenging week. 

"Consider the birds," says Jesus, gently. Today, and each day this week, I will.