treasure: the year that was 31

I wrote this last week, and then I got all caught up in cake and champagne and didn't post it. 

Here it is, with some final edits I couldn't help but add, for that is my way.

It’s the eve of my 32rd birthday. I haven’t written half as much publishable writing as I’d have liked to this year, but I’m a fan of the retrospective of a Year That Was Something, and boy was this one a year just like that. 

I like to take a breath and mark a moment before the next year starts - tomorrow, I will be into my 33rd year on the planet, and that will be another story entirely. Maybe. 

It’s been a real bitch, this 32nd year - and yet. And. Yet.

I’ve pulled myself together to write a Distinction-worthy Masters dissertation in a little short of a month (not counting reading and crying time), fighting those motherfucking Imposter Syndrome whispers all the way to the submit button. I can write! I have actual, honest-to-goodness original ideas. The sweet relief of it - I can’t begin to tell you. I even fell back in love, just a little, with the power of delivering a good strong sentence to a blank page. To let that certainty flow through me and to recognise it, however fleeting - a joyful miracle.

Another gorgeous happening, the strength of which I am only truthfully starting to grasp - the unexpected friendship of two warm, well-dressed (I believe this is fashun, Hamish?) and ridiculously goodlooking men. With open and well-muscled arms, you both pulled me in your separate and special ways out of some spectacularly deep mud, and into a space carefully lit up with avocados, drag queens, memes, wine, whisky and c-bombs, as well as (whether you admit it or not, Dan) good old-fashioned love. In a world that often feels like bits are missing, inexplicably you’ve become those bits. You’re a safe space to yell, nap, scoff mexican food, drink cups of tea. I’m endlessly grateful for it. 

I’ve been let in close to friends in tough places - I’ve shared the chance to chase away the shadows in city concert crowds, I’ve shared bottles of scotch in the height of unspeakable minutes that turn the world upside down. It’s an honour to be close and trusted with every part you’ve chosen to share, and a privilege I have done my best not to take lightly. I wish I could love all of you as much as you deserve to be loved every damn day - I’ve done the best with the love I have to give, and I thank you for letting that be enough.

I get to live in a houseful of flowers with possibly the best woman I know (besides my mum) arranging them into beautiful perfection, appreciating my cooking, encouraging the brand of self care that calls for movies and puppies. You have turned a house into a home, and I do not care how cliched that sounds, because it’s true. You’ve kept our glasses full of wine and are always, always there knowing just how I feel and then occasionally paying for my therapy. I love you, Mikaela Ingvarsdotter.

Each year I seem to get a little closer to knowing something good, and I feel like this year has taught me plenty, although there’s been less good to know than I’d have liked. I’ve been quiet for a while, and it’s because of how sad I’ve been. Bloody goddamn sad. A person I really quite liked stepped out of his story much earlier than any of us were ready for, and it sits with me every day, the way I know it sits with all of us. 

The thing nobody tells you about grief is how quiet it is. It lays itself in your bones so they’re just a little more dense than they were before. It lines the pockets of your clothes; it rests just a little heavy on your tongue. The thing nobody tells you about grief is how you’re alone with it so much of the time, because of the way people forget. The way people forget is sort of important too, to keep the world moving. The thing nobody tells you about grief is how it slaps you in the face; sucks the air from your lungs; drops you from a great height. It’s also nothing shocking - there, tucked underneath other piles of loose papers until the stone weighing it all down is shifted and it’s away.

There’s nothing to do but keep breathing, so on we breathe. 

There’s more, of course. There’s knowing my family are all coming home this month; that my brothers will be nearby for beers whenever I’d like is something so impossibly good I am waiting to be sure it’s really happening before I believe it. They bring with them two pretty great women that I can’t wait to have around. 

I did a lot of thinking, doing and feeling to the accompaniment to a pile of tunes this year - here's 31 I picked for that year that was. Special mentions go to Dan and Hamish for reminding me about Roxette, to Clare Bowditch for inspiring my dissertation and to Kate H for showing me how Bowditch's music was meant to be heard. Thanks to Sampa the Great for getting me through it, to St Vincent for existing (same goes Holly Throsby, Bec Sandridge and Asgeir, all of whom I managed to see live this year). Music is life, and it's the encouragement of Jordan, Elle, Alana and Dylan that put a good pile of these bangers right in front of me this year. Many thank yous, friends.

I start this 33rd year a little tired but a lot hopeful. I think 32 year olds get to have their feet on the ground but their heads still in the clouds, and even if that’s self-proscribed, it’s advice I’m going to take.

secret: when you finally stop, or, some broad generalisations of a traveller

there's that point you get to in life as a person who likes to travel about the place, having adventures, when you want to keep moving, but you also want to stay still.

there's the yearning for the new and unknown places, for the rush of foreign smells and noises and coins. that sort of travel-crack (by this i mean, the addictive rush of traveling) that keeps you moving, almost forgetful of the experiences before you've had them.

everything is unknown and nothing is certain and it's the most freeing thing, probably even more so for those who always loved to plan, like me. it's a revelation, especially the bits that you hate, or the traps you fall into, representing Australia in some unknowing way, those parts you end up loving.

it's freeing, to know that whoever you choose to be each morning is no less you than that other person you left behind either yesterday, or last country, or back in Australia so long ago. either way, a lifetime and an age have passed, and you're here and now seeing everything, loving it or hating on it.

and then.

it's that little voice that misses knowing which kitchen cupboard has the mugs in it. strangely, it's missing Australian dairy products. it's your parents, either bemused at your vagrancy or travelers themselves, who want to know where and how you are in a suffocating way (somewhat and sometimes) that you've caught yourself craving at least once.

it's coming home with a new lover, to show them off to your family and your hometown in a way that reveals unflinchingly that it either will not last, or it's solid gold. it's the broken heart you drag in the back door of home, too weary, too broken. or it's the trudging through visa applications and proof that you really do love each other, sometimes put upon you much too soon.

when you finally stop, you haven't really stopped at all. if you're lucky, you'll have travel mates who become lifelong friends to visit and be visited by. if you're really lucky, perhaps they'll stop to rest more than just a little while on your back door step, drinking beer and balancing out wishes for the future with the golden remember whens.

when you finally stop, you'll be searching for a place steady enough to plant your feet. you'll know it because you'll catch yourself smiling at that final crest in the road before you hit the home valley, smiling in recognition at that feeling, that undeniable warmth in your heart.

you do feel the warmth elsewhere - the top of a mountain on a bluebird day, or apres-ski, tired and happy with shredding buddies (why is it that places of great height inspire this warm glow?). i don't for a minute suggest that you can't belong somewhere while traveling, but my point remains:

when you finally stop, you know something. even if you don't have it mapped out or pinned down exactly, it's yours to know.

when you finally stop, you give thanks for all the other lovely bits. you want more, you want feet on and in the earth, like roots.

you shake your head in disbelief at the simple truth of it. you followed your heart around the world this whole time, giddy, and when you finally stop, there it is, and there you are.

secret: a midnight thought (at 1am)

i watched a lot of grey's anatomy today and i decided i would like to die in my sleep. calmly, when i'm old, but not so old i've started putting the kettle in the fridge and microwaving my handbag.

i'd like it to be free of drama, and i'd like my affairs to be in order, and i'd like to have some awesome possessions to leave to my appreciative grandkids in my will.

i'd like something nice but relatively obscure to be played at the funeral, so that only my close friends knew to chuckle or smile wryly, or fondly, when they heard it play.

and i'd like to go before anyone else died, so i never had to live alone.

i'd also like my body to be found right away when i didn't wake up in the morning. i do not like the idea of being found in a decomposed state, because that is scary.

also, if something bad happens and i'm resurrected as a zombie, i want my loved ones to know i fully support them doing what it takes to disable me and stop me from eating brains.