It was with a mixture perhaps of Joy - Zadie Smith might disagree - and most certainly relief that I read the final lines of Kelly Sundberg’s It Will Look Like a Sunset, turned the page and realised I had finally finished reading my copy of The Best American Essays for 2015. It - the niggle at the back of my mind constantly reminding me I was yet to complete any of the books I’d started this year - had begun to feel like a thing around my neck. The 13 book target for the year - measly as it were - is now about as achievable as skiing in Kaduna, I suspect.
As to reasons why this dire state of affairs developed, the usual excuses of work and busyness feature prominently, as does the desire to spend more face time with friends this year, and the time commitments it entails. As a result I have seen more movies in the first half of this year than in all the last two years combined (more burgers too but the less said about that the better). Laziness too has played a part, arguably the more significant of the lot.
A few essays stood out from the 2015 collection; David Sedaris on becoming obsessed with his Fitbit, Roger Angell on living into his nineties, Justin Cronin on finding a form of faith following an accident his wife and daughter inexplicably survived and Rebecca Solnit on arriving. Perennial favourite Zadie Smith’s Find Your Beach also made the cut.
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I come from a faith tradition that believes that God ‘speaks’ to us as individuals - sometimes audibly, sometimes in dreams, sometimes in circumstances. In my experience, whilst I cannot claim to have heard God audibly, there have certainly been instances in which following periods of prayer, certain decisions have come strongly to the fore of my mind, future events somehow confirming that those decisions where the right ones.
One of the things I was most sure I had ‘heard’ God about this year had to do with the sense of an ending I talked about the last time I was properly here. That foreboded ending materialised out of the blue one morning in May, somehow being the end result of a conversation intended as a quick catch up.
Clarity around situationships are never unwelcome, particularly when the sequence of events which lead to them suggest that Someone out there was looking out for your interests. The disappointment of the anti-climax of the ending was somehow mitigated by reading in my devotional the next day about trusting God’s design in the detours- an apt and timely message if ever there was one. How that gets wound down is another one of the things around my neck - the nuclear, zero contact option has tended to be my preferred option historically, this time though I’m keen to not be seen as being a sore loser. I suspect that true to character I am overthinking this.
My friend E did provide some context the other day, her analysis of the situation delivered with far too much candour - and some glee I suspect - somehow being the kick up the backsides I needed to begin the process of mental decoupling. What bloke couldn’t use a hard-as-nails mother figure, eh?
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When you’re seven, becoming eight seems to take forever, particularly if turning eight is tied to something you have been promised, for which you wait in anticipation. When you are twenty-seven, the world is your oyster and all you feel is an overwhelming wave of confidence - you feel like you can take the world on and win. When you’re thirty seven though (I’m not, at least not yet), each birthday feels like another link added to a chain around your neck, particularly when progress towards certain expectations and objectives appears slow or non-existent. I am learning though to be thankful for each day, for the small mercies, the joys and the things I manage to achieve in spite of what has been an incredibly busy, difficult year. That lesson, learned the last time I was here still holds true. Can it be December already?