I’m turned thirty a few weeks ago. And I love it. Somehow I feel like this invisible shift from twenties to thirties has changed something essential about me. I feel more confident in not only who I am but also how I am. But how I spent my birthday weekend illuminated an unexpected awareness about not only my creative life but also my general lifestyle.
I spent my birthday weekend at a writing retreat at The Home of Compassion, a convent in a seaside suburb of Wellington city. We drank a lot of coffee and spent the days writing in sprints and longer stretches of focused words work. I went walking and counted Mary’s. Wise peaceful looking stone women waited for me around every corner.
I was productive that weekend. I figured out the end of my novel. I wrote about 3000 words all up which meant I met my personal daily best for word counts. But I also discovered, to my surprise, that writing all day is not actually my life goal. Here I was, with lovely vegetarian catered meals and a community to belong to and, while I did good work, I also felt like I did not fully belong.
For the last eighteen months I had been so focused on words that I had let these other interests slip. I was so focused on being a writer I was even all set up to enrol for Graduate School in writing. But then I spoke to a friend and we mused on the principle of life-long learning. This conversation made me feel uncomfortable because it was something I had been trying not to think about. It felt in many ways easier to take the well-trodden path of a Master’s degree.
But then there were my concerns for an uncertain future coloured by climate change and dwindling natural resources. This world meant that having a garden and growing some of my own food felt like a necessary security. There were the opportunities in Wellington for my art. Emails from festivals and art schools asking me if I wanted to teach embroidery.
Was this a sign from the universe to take a different path?
By not going to graduate school which serves as a silo of interest and endeavour, I feel like I am better able to be the woman I want to be. She still writes (she will always write) but she also stitches and teaches and digs and grows and cooks and makes.
In light of the shift of intention in my life, I will be retaining this WordPress site for a professional web presence; but this will be my last blog post on this site. However, I will soon launch a new blog focusing on my work as an eco-lifestyler. Called Heart to Hearth, it will showcase my interests in sustainable living and activism through domestic action.
Keep an eye out on my social media for the link to the first blog post!
I haven’t blogged for a long while. Longer than I thought now I’ve opened the tab in my browser and see that it was November 2020 when I last posted…
It’s not that I haven’t been writing. I have been. I’ve been writing a lot. I’ve been working on my debut novel. I’ve been working on a long piece of short fiction; 10 000 words – now submitted. I also wrote 30,000 words of a second novel for Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month to the uninitiated.) I’ve written about 20 poems. I’ve written many shopping lists and menu plans because I have a budget to keep to.
I’ve written so very many emails. Emails for work in several iterations of client service and administrative roles. But also, for my own business. I’ve written query letters to literary journals. I’ve written to literary festivals to offer my time as a volunteer. I’ve written exchanges with the publisher who is publishing an essay I wrote. It is a piece I am immensely proud of but it is also one that I am equally terrified about because it is so intensely personal.
I write A LOT. And I love it. I am not one of those writers who hate what they do but feel compelled to do it all the same. Even on the hard days I still love it. My devotion to words almost never wavers.
I am committed to words in a way I have never managed to be in a romantic relationship. I’m not fully sure if this is because of my wordy devotion or if its just that I have yet to meet the right person. Either way, while I wait, I have words. And words bring me so much joy I know I will be okay as long as I am writing.
I guess today is a bit of an accountability post. It is a record of me stating that I want to post more regularly. It also me telling the world that I also want to write in a more real way.
My blog will still be curated. I will still chose to create content for specific contexts and readers. But I also hope it will act as a real record of my creative and intellectual lives. That means the worries and the woes will be there as well as the wonders.
My Worries and Woes today were about feeling fatigued (a much more wearying state than just being tired.) They were about wanting to help other people but not feeling like I had the capacity to do so in the way I wanted. They were about feeling like I had too much to do even when I desperately wanted to slow down . They were me feeling like I had read the simple living texts but not understood them properly.
However, My Wonder today was coffee with a colleague from a previous job where I did more listening than talking. And even when I was talking it felt like it was a more considered conversation than my usual rapid Lorelei Gilmore style rambles.
My Wonder was vegan cake for lunch and not caring about the calories.
My Wonder was walking in the early Autumn sun up my hill towards home and not worrying about trying to catch my breath. I had the faith it would return to me when it was ready.
I locked down solo back in April. At the time I felt I had to dampen down my feelings about The World as a way of safely negotiating the global order. The world is still a mess. Even if Aotearoa is less of a mess than most. I thank The Winds for Jacinda and her communications degree words of kindness and clarity during crisis.
New Zealand is now over a month back at Level 1 of our Covid alert system after the blip up in Auckland. We are doing well in a weird world. Life feels like it is pretty much back to the new normal once again.
I go to work in the mornings at my university library job. No longer do I have to rhyme my way through contact tracing duties ‘Please swipe and take a wipe.’ This rhyme amused me initially, but it got old fast.
Meanwhile, Arnold Schwarzenegger photos of terminator hands (think clawed metallic fists) remain pasted to the bathroom walls beside the sinks. These film-still photos serve as a reminder to wash our hands thoroughly every single time. I know it is meant to be funny. And it is. But it is also really not, because of the fearful intention in which it has been displayed.
The worst of Covid-19 increasingly feels like it was A Very Long Time Ago here in Aotearoa. Time has acted weirdly in this sense. The weeks of Lockdown flashed me by like a movie on fast forward. I pick out a few discernible points. Pages and pages of typewritten text to represent the many hours spent writing. Most of it for money. These pages represent creative output but also the financial security of still having work to do and the safety of a fortnightly wage.
I also appreciated the security of seasonal changes. The gentle pull back of the light as the days shortened towards Winter. I also loved the slightly magical way of soft toys appearing overnight in windows and how their stitched smiles lifted the spirit of my inner child. She, who made blanket forts and had rhymes for safety at bedtime.
During lock-down i choose the comfort of things that could fly. I went about postering my bed sit with pictures of birds and butterflies. Some, I made myself. Others, I collected from op shop calendars and picture books. I decided I liked living in a paper aviary. I consider myself very lucky that the soft calls of real-life Ruru from the Sanctuary across the fence continue to sing-song-sing me to sleep every night.
Plants have also played their part in helping me through the pandemic. Not only in getting through it but also supporting how I feel at home not just in a physical place, but also in my (slightly muddied) skin.
I spent the first day of lockdown digging up my lawn with my landlord’s permission. He even lent me the spade. My first plantings failed to grow – novice gardener here – I hadn’t turned the soil enough and the heavy clay dirt held water in its thick clammy grasp.
With some advice from my landscape architect mother, I removed the first set of failing plants and spent two hours digging the dirt deeper and turning and turning the soil. I added leaves and coffee grounds as I went to improve the soil structure. Then I dug the soil some more.
As I turned soil I thought about relationships. Some faded during lockdown. The distance affecting our connections and the technology somehow not quite being able to bridge the gap. Others had been newly developed online or were reaffirmed through video call apps and a more conscious awareness of making an effort towards connection.
I talked Tiny Houses and container gardens and donut economics and helicopter payments from the government as some sort of attempt at universal income. What had been a more theoretical interest in environmental issues, local food and sustainability, has, with the pandemic, become a much more practical desire to be able to live more on my own terms.
I was going to write independently, and yes, there is a certainly a large element of self-sufficiency, but it is also about community connection. Learning from others about the things I don’t know. Like soil science, soap making and crochet to name an immediate few.
It is also about not so much solitary actions as it is about collective intention. We might all have been in our homes making our bread and planting our gardens but there was also, I think, (and really hope), a wider energy of change towards a different way of being in the world.
Once turned anew I planted my lawn-turned-garden-bed with bok choi, cavolo nero and rainbow silver beet. I added a layer of mulch to help retain moisture and nutrients. I then watered and fed the plants diluted bokashi fertiliser brew on a weekly basis. I regularly checked for signs of disease. And with my steady care, I was pleased to see my plants grow green and strong as they reached up towards the sun.
I now harvest garden-grown-greens most nights for my salad dinners. They taste better than anything bought. I take great joy in heading to the garden with a basket to harvest my dinner. Not only is it as fresh as it can possibly be, I also know it is grown not just chemically free, but also with a loving intention of caring for both soil and for soul.
Gardening has been a new hobby for me since Covid, as it has been for many people concerned with food security in an unstable world. I’ve dabbled before in growing herbs, but gardening is now becoming an activity I increasingly want to do more of. Not only because it makes me feel great on my good days. It is also how, on my Bad Days, when writing doesn’t even help me feel better, going into the garden soothes my spiky spirit.
The New Normal for me, post-Covid, is about up-skilling and learning how to be more sufficient in providing for my own material needs. It is also about connecting with other people who want to do the same thing. As companions we all face the New Normal together. New does not have to be bad though. It can even, if considered carefully, be an opportunity to make the world better.
(…and yes I’m referencing kids TV show ‘The Land Before Time’ – clearly I was a 90’s kid!)
NOTE: this post was written prior to the Level 4 self-isolation nationwide lock-down set for Aotearoa New Zealand on Monday 23 March 2020. Lockdwon is due to begin at midnight on Wednesday 25 March 2020.
Not even a week after my last blog post about reducing and reassessing my social media use Covid-19 became a Global Thing. Suddenly social media seemed like a pretty good way to not only keep up with what was happening in the world but also as a key way to stay in touch with people as we all socially distanced and many self-isolated.
So, I’ve been lured back. I’m now posting photos of my bushwalks for my friends and family unable to go out anymore. I’m taking pictures of my city-to-sea view. I’m sharing my craft and sewing projects on Instagram to show, I hope, creative ways of passing the time. I’m doing it for the friends and family with health and immune system issues who are now self-isolating. I’m also doing it for people like my grandmother. She is over seventy and now largely housebound.
I guess there HAS been a re-assessment in my social media use. I feel my posts are less about status, both literally and symbolically. I post a lot less about writing awards and publishing wins (See: status.) I also feel less like I care about what these kinds of posts signify. You know, career success, awards, external signifiers etc.
I’m here on Facebook for the slow stitching groups whose art works inspire me to slow down and take creative time for myself every few hours. There’s nothing like boro stitch to inspire a few moments of self-care for me.
I’m here for the community pages where offers of aid to those who need it are growing in posts and comments and shares. These gestures of generosity give me hope for humanity.
I’m also here to show my slightly blurry photos of trees that I hope make my FB friends experience the same sense of calm I felt when out walking amongst The Green.
The world is storming right now. Maybe not literally in the climate changed way we thought would be our next challenge. But humanity faces a huge dark storm cloud that is called Covid-19. That is called community transmission fears. That is called self-isolation becoming social-isolation…
Social media (along with The Trees…) is helping me feel calmer about this shit storm. It feels weird to say this but it is true. It’s the connections to my friends; the video messages and texts and shares that show care that make me feel less alone. Social media is, also, I hope, helping me calm others through what I choose to share too.
I feel it is this idea of sharing that will get us through to the other side of this Thing. And the language of social media sets us up for The New World Order. We ‘Like’ things. We ‘Share’ posts. There are more love heart emoticons than angry or sad faces.
This gives me hope for the world, as we, at present, largely retreat to virtual worlds.
I am glad we have emoji kisses and cat icons to send each other when we are lonely. It may not be as a good as a real kiss. Or a real cat. But I know that I, for one, gather the glitchy love hearts and grinning Cheshire cat ready to Share them and hopefully pass on a gesture of goodwill to those who need it.
How they together watched the Union solders march by
Always marching, marching by.
I tell him I’d be orange if I were a colour.
It’s less overwhelming than red.
And not everyone can wear it, I say.
He smiles at that.
I feel safe within his smile.
As I do in the presence of his nasal drawl.
But the questions are kind.
There are queries about religion and creativity
(creativity is what you want it to be!
he says vehemently)
We compare deer and dolphins as endangered species
And as spirit animals.
We discuss scarcity mindsets in the middle class.
I realise as we talk that I feel safer still
as a reflection in his eyes.
This poem was written at the Kahini Writer’s Retreat 2020 held at Waikanae Beach in Aotearoa New Zealand. The bare bones of it were written as a 10 minute free-writing exercise in response to interview questions attendees exchanged with another participant.
Many of the things and featured in this poem (Alan Rickman, Union Soldiers, the colour orange, dolphins and deer) were answers from my interviewee. I then added in some of the beautiful natural setting and the wonderful meal we had on arrival at the retreat.
Note that i used creative license (an artist’s best friend) to craft a poem with what i hope has a wider and more considered significance than just a random juxtaposition of elements.
I believe poetry is both about specific things and everything. Both at the same time. I hope this poem conveys a sense of this..
Fires run raging and ragged in the land across The Tasman. Animals have lost their lives and their lands. People have lost their homes and their geographic heritage. We all can’t seem to see the fire for the smoke.
Meanwhile, I sit with a dashed punctuation mark of a mouth; it is paused, it is hesitating, as I see photo after photo after photo on my news feed of bright red skies, burnt marsupials and the ash streaked faces of The Fire Fighter’s and The Survivors.
This post isn’t about the wider issue of climate change that is driving the current state of Australian emergency. Nor is it about political inaction to address this cause and make appropriate actions to mitigate the worst of a changing climate. A changing climate induced by the Anthropocene era.
It’s about my Fears for The Worst. Because things ARE going to get worse climatically. Even if we all dropped what we were doing today and started making changes at all levels of individual action, community outreach, national policy and international agreement, there is still going to be a serious degree of climatic warming that will have huge impacts upon human life on earth.
I’m also not going to write about The Science. Many other people can do that much better than I can. Namely, Scientists. I’m just a poet and aspiring novelist after all.
What I want to do today is give you a story. One of my stories. It’s about living in a very worry inducing world with a certain degree of anxiety. As in, mental disorder level. I manage it pretty well most of the time. Much better than ten years ago when my belly felt constantly like it were full of squirming kittens and I was taking sedative medication just to get through what felt like very long days. But I do still have bad anxiety days. Sometimes I lie awake worrying about the fact I am worrying and how because I am worrying, I’m not sleeping and that not sleeping isn’t good for my mood maintenance. It’s a panic paradox!
Linking into the bush fire crisis, fire is something I fear with an almost pathological intensity. I’m a Pisces. A water sign. Its elementally opposite in the Zodiac. At least three times a week at work I will worry that my house might burn down while I’m out. Hence, the OCD-like checking of stove elements and electrical sockets. I laugh about this with my friend who has the same fire hazard checking habits but underneath the laughter there is a cold blue fear that one day we will be proved right.
I’m lucky that I live in a damp Pacific city. Fire risk is generally quite low even in a dry summer. This has not been a dry Summer. We’ve had moody rainstorms drench the streets and water-misted clouds swirl around the hill suburbs. This soothes me. Then it doesn’t. Because all I want to do is be able to blow the water across the Tasman to Australia where they so desperately need it.
Instead we send fire fighters and well wishes. We send prayers.
As for me, to deal with both my upset and my anxiety, I am turning to what got me through The Fear last time a decade ago, when worry kittens beat my belly bruised. I’m getting my Art On. A FB acquaintance is organising sewing bees for the wildlife injured or orphaned in the bush fires. I’m going to sew and knit and crochet The Awful out of me.
I’ve long been a believer in getting the messy hurtful feelings out of our hearts and heads. Whether it be making art. Sewing a dress. Writing a melancholic poem you show no one. Baking a cake you decorate with icing rose buds and then devour. Running so fast it feels like you’re flying. Dancing until you are dizzy and fall to the ground.
I’m going to be doing all these Creative Things to a certain degree as my Awful about the bush fires is large and amorphous. I’ll make roo pouches and bat slings. I’m making paintings featuring Gaia type women whose bodies grow not just babies but also flowers. I’m upcycling a dress as a bit of a rebellion against the environmental costs of the fashion industry. I’ve written a poem where I rhyme fire with liar (maybe a little dig at a certain international political figure there…) I’ve not baked a cake but I have made muffins. They cool in a lovely yellow way on my kitchen bench as I write this.
I went running on NY day. I listened to metal in my headphones. The singer’s screams spurred me on to run fast. Then faster. I’ve also booked myself in for a special summer session of my dance class. I’m going to spin around and around to African drumbeats and I hope that after falling to Earth when I get to my feet, the world will have righted itself again.
One of the New Year’s Resolutions I make every year is to buy fewer clothes. I’m an emotional op shopper you see. Feel sad, bad, mad… I buy thrifted clothes. The colours and fabrics help. The kind woman at the shop on the corner who asks how I am with a smile in her voice also helps. As does the idea about how the me who wears these clothes will be different to who I am today. She will be a woman of tomorrow.
I’ve tried to justify the op shop habit to myself. Its recycling. Its supporting charity. It’s cheap – you won’t blow your budget. These things are all true but it’s actually about a weakness in intentionality. And that is something I beat myself up about. Over and over and over again.
2019 was a year where on the surface I did Great. Work was good. I shifted to a different team and that turned out to be a very positive change. I acquired an extra part time role in community work that I love. I also started a small freelance writing and editing portfolio side hustle. I considered post graduate study in another city on another island and after travelling there in The Winter I set that future aside (at least for now.)
I had a poetry review published by the New Zealand Poetry Society and have another one due for publication in in the Autumn. I even had my first piece of paid writing accepted for publication. An essay about parenting (or not) in my case when you live with a disability. This was a huge Thing for me as I had put my heart and soul into that piece. That was also why it feels so hard. It’s making me super vulnerable to the world. But I think the benefits outweigh The Fears for I hope it will make readers re-assess some common assumptions and maybe feel (and think about) ability and disability things in a different way.
This essay, titled ‘Good Enough’ was in essence about some of the less good things of my 2019. Well, its themes were longer reaching back in time, but last year I found myself re-visiting the motherhood question in relation to my chronic health issues, my chronic singledom and a re-assessment of my wants and desires. All these things coloured by the approaching big 30… And none of these particularly easy things to think about anyway.
So, while on the surface 2019 was a Good Year. Digging a little deeper, I realised I’d actually been feeling less-than-good rather more than I’d been feeling ok. As I often say to a friend – I was somewhere on the ‘ok-ish’ scale. I could function as a semi-competent adult. I could go to work. Cook dinner. Clean my flat. Watch disaster dramas on TV (I’m a big 911 fan!) and keep most coffee dates with girlfriends penned into my diary.
But the ‘ish’ part meant I went on few romantic dates because of anxiety. It meant I had several weeks of time totalled across the year couched with pain from my Fibromyalgia. It meant sometimes crying in public toilets because getting home again felt so hard. It meant I snapped at friends because of my pain when they were just trying to help. Or sometimes I’d forget to take my morning meds and the world would be slapped grey and everything would feel Bad.
I loved where I lived. But still thought about moving away often. I knew that doing yoga on a daily basis helped. But I didn’t always do it. I held off on taking pain killers to test my Strength of Will. This just resulted in lost sleep and grumpy moods.
So yeah on the surface it was a Great Year, going a bit deeper, Not So Much.However, I had the best New Year’s I’ve probably ever had. I invited two new friends over to my hilltop house and we communed with the Kaka (New Zealand native parrots), ate healthy nibbles (toasted nuts, veggie sticks, rice crackers) and ordered pizza from a place called Hells. Like me, they are minimal drinkers. We laughed a lot. We had deep and meaningful conversations. We watched silly You-Tube videos. We planned to write affirmations and paint the pages with flowers and stars.
This NY was a stark contrast to some in the past where I’d been left feeling deeply lonely. I might have been with other people but felt set apart because of Health Things and having to leave early. I’d spent the last two New Year’s immersed in books. I read historical fantasy novels where lonely woman were seers and soothsayers. They could see different futures even if they didn’t know which of these would come true. I remember I’d liked the poetry of this.
This 2019/2020 New Year’s I was anything but lonely. For even after my friends had left and I was sitting out with a solar lantern on my deck in the summer dark handwriting in my journal I felt such a wonderful sense of abundance and positive energy flow through me. I felt like the next year, fuck, the next decade, was going to be different. I won’t say The Best (I’m no Soothsayer) but I would work hard to make it Better.
As a Woman of Tomorrow, I wrote that I would be more social and instigate more events.
As a Woman of Tomorrow, I wrote that I would better connect with my artistic self and get back into painting and sewing. I’d try to actually make a few completed works from the many visual diaries I’ve filled over the years. Draw every day. Maybe try and sell a few pieces too…
As a Woman of Tomorrow, I wrote that I would finish my debut novel and submit it to a traditional publisher for consideration.
As a Woman of Tomorrow, I wrote that I would live better in the Today that was Yesterday’s Tomorrow.
So awhile back I read a book called ‘Single Girl Problems.’ You know, the problems that arise in the celebratory season when you turn up solo. Yet again. When people say, oh, but you’re so pretty, smart, funny (insert positive descriptor here) and this ‘but’ implies a lack on your part. The lack of hooking in a man, of being coupled, a lack, dare I say it, of attractiveness.
Is it because I’m too opinionated? And use words like paradigm and incandescent. The first word to (I admit) to make myself sound smart (and smartness is, I feel, a worthy weapon in the gender battle.) The second because saying it makes me feel a lightness of being and I need that feeling when I’m being cutting-eyed by someone I have only recently met or not seen for years and they are asking me, why no date?
I’ve never had a date. Well, I’ve dated. I’ve eaten raw veggie burgers and talked about places where I’ve never been and am not sure I honestly want to go to. I’ve straddled silence awkwardly over vegan tacos. I’ve board-gamed and eaten curry without splashing it on my pale blue blouse (life achievement here.) I’ve been to movies and avoided sweaty hand holds but at the same time surreptitiously made side lines glances at The Guy. I’ve said no to more dates. I’ve been the person who says ‘just friends.’ Knowing at the same time I’ll never hear from them again.
But I’ve never taken a guy home to meet my mum. Let alone my grandmother. I segregate my life into boxes like a sock drawer but I hope, better organised. There are the family dinners once a week where over vegetarian casseroles and roasted vegetables we discuss Future Directions and The Housing Crisis. There’s the fortnightly date with my dad where we share Haiku we’ve written like badly kept secrets and get jittery on cowboy coffee.
There are the friends who I never let meet each other. In case they like each other better than me and I am the forgotten thing that brought them together. Or because I’m afraid My Secrets will come out. About The Crazy. Or The Fear. Or even just that I’ve exercised for three hours that day. Not for weight loss. But because moving is the only thing that makes me feel ok. Maybe it’s the secret that I’ve been thinking of moving away for longer than I will admit to. Those kinds of secrets. The feeling huge but are actually little and the feeling small but are actually larger than life kind.
So I’ve dated but never had a boyfriend. Never been In a Relationship. At 28 that would most definitely make me a spinster in Jane Austen’s world. In 2019 I like to think it makes me an independent woman. I don’t however want to hold out until cougar status takes hold. I’ve never suited leopard prints and gold-manacled jewellery.
I know what I don’t want to be. That’s a start. And even better I know what I already am not and that is lonely. I have great friends, even if I do segregate them in my life. That’s certainly something to work on.
I have a job I enjoy where I get to help people (libraries rock!) and I have work I love – writing. Note, the differentiation between my job and my work. I feel this matter of distinction is important for there is a similar subtle distinction between being alone and lonely.
I am often alone. I write solo at my desk or in public places with headphones on. I choose my own noise. At the moment Anoushka Shankar sitar music or this obscure Dutch indie band whose drummer FB’ed me because he liked one of my Spotify playlists.
I write at desks and cafe tables and on my lap table in bed which makes me feel like I’m on an airplane because it comes with a drink holder but it’s the most comfy flight in the world and it doesn’t matter when I haven’t done my face.
And speaking of FB, I have social media. Writers to follow on Twitter as they too face the dilemma of middle of the day courier deliveries and you’re still in your Pyjamas. Commiserations over writer’s blocks that take up weeks of your life and it’s like how I imagine a bad break-up is like but there’s less tears and more chocolate but equally stringent resolutions about exercise and healthy eating and routines, damn it.
But rarely am I lonely. I have Anoushka, of Shankar Sitar royalty. I have random musicians messaging me. (Internet Life!) And ofcourse I have my characters. The heroes I fall just a little, ok a lot, in love with. The feisty heroines who I wish I was more like so I could say screw it to the people who ask if I’m still single, (or worse, those who have stopped asking.) It’s hypocritical, I know, but the question implies that a sense of faith is still there and that they still have hope for me.
Today, however, I refuse to be categorised by my romantic relationship status. I have relationships with many people. Friends. My parents. My brother. My co-workers. The patrons I help at work. The women at craft groups where we share stories of our lives and hook yarn to make blankets and booties for people less fortunate than us.
I also see myself as having relationships with the people who I sit next to in coffee shops and smile at over my $2 pot of English Breakfast tea while we both work on our Hope-To-Be-Breakout novels. This is a comradery of a certain kind of Writerly Relationship. We don’t necessarily have to talk to each-other. But it feels like we get each other anyway.
My answer to questions of singledom is that there really isn’t a single answer. Relationships are complicated (as the Facebook status attests to.) And because of this complicated nature, I believe people will keep asking me if I’m ‘in a relationship’ until the societal paradigm (that word) changes. In the meantime, I’ll keep emanating my incandescent (that word) self through the world.
I will live with passion. I will celebrate my freedoms. I will follow my fancies. I will love living my life. So that when the right person comes along, they’ll recognise me as someone they want to be with. And, just as importantly, I’ll see myself as the kind of person who is capable of being loved in that way.
Not only by another, but to have that love manifest in a genuine and honest way that speaks of a wider truth. One of a certain sense of identity and of a high degree of self-esteem. It’s about knowing the real me. Not just the right me. And if I’m being totally honest here, it’s taken me this long to figure that out myself; the real versus right thing.
I also come from a family of later-in-life relationships. The first forays into romance for many of us tend to be in our mid to late 20’s, a decade after many people begin dating. We’re also an intensely interested family. For me, this has meant, along with a few health issues needing to be addressed, that I’ve spent the last decade just being really busy learning shit.
I got the BA. (Art History.) I received a library diploma. I studied for a business administration certificate. These were just the formal education situations. I also taught myself using library books and the internet, a whole range of craft techniques from quilting to cable knitting. I’ve read up on zero waste living (and am now teaching an adult education class on this topic.) I’ve read self-help books to make myself feel better psychologically. I’ve also been to therapy where I was given mindfulness homework. I found this hard. It ended up taking up a lot of my spare time. I’ve been to social media development classes. Environmental film screenings. Plant swaps and compost science workshops. I’ve been to oral history trainings. Time bank inductions. Archival process lessons. I’ve spent most of the time I wasn’t dating, learning stuff.
And I’ve loved it (most of the time.) But I now feel I’m ready for a different kind of learning. Less head, more heart.
I want to feel things rather than just think them.
So, I guess if I was going to say something to my single girl self I would ask, how does it make you feel (as opposed to ‘what do you think?’) And in that, would be my attempt at some kind of answer.
I admit it. I’ve joined the Marie Kondo bandwagon. But as I like to think of it, the better sort. As in I’ve actually read the book, examined her sock folding diagrams, and even asked Google about what it defines this thing called Joy as. Google dictionary states that joy is ‘A feeling of great pleasure or happiness.’ I interpret this definition as where joy is a slightly more intense experience than pleasure. Possibly with a greater underlay of physical energetics than the emotion of happiness alone.
For the last year I’ve been slowly getting rid of the Things that I think weigh me down. I pick items up as Marie Kondo states we should do and ask the essential Kondo question ‘Does it spark joy?’
And, contrary to mocking popular belief, I have found I can rid myself of almost everything that does not spark joy. Even if it is an associative joy. For instance, functional things like my running shoes make me feel good because, hello – exercise equals endorphins. They are also orange. And orange is my favourite colour.
Equally, my fry pan enables me to cook up healthful stir fries of Chinese greens in sesame oil. It too is associative of joy. The joy of nourishment. Of feeding myself Good Foods. Of cooking (a hobby I find a great amount of Joy in.)
This ‘Simplification of Stuff’ jag was sparked by two things. Firstly, shifting into a tiny studio bedsit that literally had no room for most of my belongings. I had stuff that had to be stored elsewhere initially. Having access to a friend’s garage was useful. As was access to my mother’s car for transporting said stuff as I sorted and culled.
Now however, I’ve destuffed enough to say I can fit all I own into one room and a small bathroom/laundry space. This is inclusive of a mountain bike which (just) fits behind my bathroom door.
It was partly a situational thing that sparked my journey into getting rid of belongings. But there was nothing joyous about this time. I was leaving a living situation that wasn’t great for my wellbeing.
It was a running away time. A running for cover time from my own ballooning feelings. It was a free falling kind of getting rid of things. I was trying to make room for better things and to get rid of the things that might reminded me of the bad…
Also of relevance to my simple living journey was TheMinimalist’s documentary on Netflix. Even if I found Joshua Fields Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus rather irritating in their uniforms of oh-so-cool-label-jeans and black t-shirts stretched across their nicely taut biceps (and yes, I did notice.)
Despite this, I did love the idea of reducing to what you need so you can live better. For them that seemed to be telling everyone else about what they thought ‘Better Living’ was. Good for them, I guess. But I wasn’t totally sold on their enthusiasm of getting rid of everything to show you cared about your life. It felt a little polemical. Possibly taken to the wrong end of extreme.
I also found their podcast immensely boring – just two guys riffing off and ranting at each other for hours on end. Maybe I just didn’t ‘get’ the podcast medium – I don’t know.
Anyway, to me, it felt a bit like ‘The New Minimalists’ were just selling yet another lifestyle. (Sell being the operative word here, America where they are from is after all capitalism’s king and both Joshua and Ryan came from business backgrounds…) It felt to me like they had made minimalism yet another idea to sell to the world.
I did find myself following much of their advice though because I really felt I needed to live better. And they both seemed so totally enthusiastic about their made-minimal-lives. I wanted to feel that enthusiastic about my life too.
By combining Kondo’s Shinto influenced interior and emotional design principles with the New Minimalist’s more gung-ho dude approach of cut your losses and reduce-to-rebel I felt like I’d almost found an ideology that worked for me.
But not quite.
Because Kondo’s obsessive clothes folding techniques and the fact, she had a whole chapter devoted to it in her book irritated me. It felt way too close to OCD. I’ve already mentioned my hesitancy about what I term ‘the sell’ of minimalism by Joshua and Ryan.
However, both these philosophies got me going in the right direction. I assessed the piles of fabric that I’d collected for sewing/ craft projects and that had sat stewing in moth- ball-laced-boxes for months untouched. I sorted all my yarn stash by colour and fibre type (yeah ok, I too have a touch of Kondo OCD.) I organised my embroidery threads by colour and weight. They lay like mini rainbows in the sewing box I had inherited from my grandmother.
I sold a few of the things I’d decided to discard on Trade Me. I also upcycled what I could for practical domestic use. Old t-shirts cut into rags for cleaning. Bulk glass peanut butter jars for storage of dried beans and lentils. With the jars sitting in regiments gleaming with their contents of small circles of plant protein, the pleasure I got from my well organised pantry sparked a joy that surprised me.
Now, as at writing, here at the start of December 2019, I can classify my belongings into five sections.
Clothes; which includes shoes and coats.
Books of various topics (mostly poetry, vegan cookbooks, novels by women writers and simple living texts). I set myself to one medium sized bookshelf full. I kept to this restriction.
Work papers and the associated technology – SEE: smart phone, laptop, gadget chargers and an extra computer monitor because I like working with a double screen.
And, craft gear. Yarn. Embroidery threads. Fabric scraps. Needles of various kinds. Crochet hooks. My sewing machine. A biscuit tin full of buttons. And the associated craft books outlining techniques or serving as inspiration.
These categories do merge in the way that life is not made of clear demarcations. See the craft books as a cross genre example. My possessions are also not clearly demarcated. Neither is how I go about using them whether it be referring to a book on how to knit lace or writing up vegan recipes on my laptop.
I think this refinement of Stuff is pretty damn good going for someone who used to be a bit of a packrat. In my ‘Angsty Artist’ days I collected a heck of a lot of crap… I had ideas of being a mixed media upcycle artist who made paintings of distraught faces out of packaging waste, magazine cuttings of skinny celebrities, medication tabs (there was a message here) and how I’d splatter these faces with black ink as a metaphor for my depression.
Angsty Arty Stella was all about Getting the Bad Feelings out. Messily. Because that was how they felt. Fucking messy. Collecting crap also felt a bit like having some semblance of control. And I needed that when it felt like the whole world was spinning faster and faster like a kid trying to dizzy itself and succeeding until it fell over and had trouble getting up again.
I’m feeling less messy these days I’m happy to say. I only ever made one distraught face painting. I have it hung on my wall as a reminder of where I’ve been and how far I’ve come. Its full of lace and fabric pieces and photos from films. It is slashed open in lots of places. The very body of the artwork is wounded. I love this artwork immensely. It is full of pain. But because it is full of pain that means that that pain is no longer inside me.
And because of that I have space inside of me for Other Things. I have space to make the yoyo flower brooches that I gather and stitch slowly as a break between typing sessions. I pin these blooms to the breast of my purple tweed jacket. It is like I wear a meadow on my chest.
I have the energy to do yoga stretches twice a day and cook healthy plant-based meals rather than live off fried potato all the time.
I also have the emotional fortitude to now run writing workshops for other women and listen to their stories. To offer comfort when they are brought to tears.
In the New Year I’m also facilitating sustainable living courses at my local community adult education centre. I’ll be teaching about ethical shopping, low-waste living and communicating lifestyle tips from a previous era where little was thrown away and household items were valued enough to be cared for and repaired.
I hope that in these workshops I will present the best ideas I have gathered from Kondo and The New Minimalists. Maybe not the main ideas they proposed within their personal ideologies. But the ones that resonated most with me as someone trying to live joyfully in an oftentimes difficult world.
Even good girls can grow into debatable women. Perhaps all the more so for they have so much to live up to. Perfect GPA’s. Perfect skin. Perfect relationship track records. Which is why Amy Sherman Palladino’s TV character Rory Gilmore is of interest. She started out as the archetypal good girl. Good at school. Good to her grandparents. Good at being good. And she dated a nice guy too. Kudos to her.
But then she grew up. Life got complicated. She fell in love with someone else who was, I have to say it, a hell of a lot more interesting. She broke someone’s heart. Had hers broken by said more interesting guy. She went to college. Cheated with her ex. Stole a boat. Lost her confidence. Found solace in a beautiful rich boy with few morals and a lot of cash.
Fast forward to The Revival where she’s in her early 30’s. She’s dating someone so forgettable the joke is she doesn’t recall his name and leaves him behind at coffee shops. She’s still sleeping with said beautiful rich boy (now man) even though he is engaged to someone else. She is The Other Woman. Her career is on the edge of that much touted End of Journalism as we Know It. She ends up with no job. Moves back home. Fights with her mother. Tap dances at 1am. Gets pregnant. The latter two points not necessarily related.
guess what i’m trying to say is that Rory Gilmore is both a fictional character
and a trope. As a trope she is the aforementioned Good Girl we all (supposedly)
are meant to aspire to be. As a character she is messy and real and human and
actually, i found, kind of unlikable as a fully-grown woman.
felt like an enormous relief. Because living up to trope Rory Gilmore is next
to impossible. It makes us feel like we’ve failed before we start. Because
we’ve had acne or didn’t date during high school or didn’t get A’s in calculus.
We’re already never perfect. We can try to be good. And that is an admirable
goal and one I fully support but perfect is to set yourself up for failure. And
that sucks. It really, really does. To be a loser before you’ve even begun.
Fictional character Rory is however richer. More meaty as it were. She seems lighter in some ways. Heavier in others. And i don’t just mean in the boob department; actress Alexis Bledel in the break between series and revival had a kid so you know…
Adult Rory wavers like a star struck teenager at a rock concert, dithering to surge forward with the crowd and meet the Rock God they have been worshipping for years. Whose music got them through a hell of a lot of crap. We don’t know all of Rory’s crap in the preceding decade but we assume there has been some, least of all the death of her beloved grandfather Richard. There’s definitely been loss. We assume several levels of heart break.
But in watching her flail as an-early-thirty-year-old it made me as a late-twenties-woman feel better because here, finally was a Rory i could imagine being friends with. The sort of friend you definitely don’t like all the time. Who you may find annoying and love to hate but a friend none the less because she screws up and gets drunk and sleeps with Wookie’s and needs to stay with you when she fights with her mum just like she did when you were both sixteen and didn’t know any better.
Now you both should know better and yet there are still fights and running away and you both make all sorts of mistakes but you’re in it for the long haul. As we were for seven seasons and a revival’s worth of Rory.
constant for Rory, both the girl we know and the woman she grows into being,
who we get to see a glimpse of in the Revival, is that she writes. This love of
words, of literature, of exploring the world through writing is a quality I
hope she will always cultivate. Both as trope (the Quiet Reading Chick and
Smart Girl) and as a character where she starts to find herself again when she
starts writing a book about her life growing up with Lorelei Gilmore as a
That is one story I would love to read even though it’s a made-up book in a TV universe. But why is this imaginary book on my To Read list?
Because I am The Quiet Reading Chick.
I am The Smart Girl.
Because I am the Rory who is beginning to find out about herself through the words she writes. That is, telling her own story and not just those of others.
I was a Good Girl.
because now I am proud to call myself a debatable woman.
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