It's Epiphany. Twelfth Night. You're about to hang up your Christmas sack for the festive season and here I am writing to you with my last-minute request. I know, I'm as irritating as a Christmas Pudding that refuses to light no matter how much warm brandy you pour on it.
Soggy Christmas Pudding aside, there is a reason why this letter is late. I've been ruminating over what to wish for. And the thing is this - I still don't know what to wish for. My current plan, or hope, is that in writing to you I might write myself into my wish.
The thing is this, since the pandemic began, I'm having trouble finding a way to live in the world. Working out what I must suffer, what I can change. How to navigate sorrow and joy. And how to live with the conflicts within whilst the noise of division and marginalisation rage all around. Sometimes, they become one of the same.
Sounds confusing, right? And fuelling this confusion is the general level of fear we have to overcome. In the far reaches of my imagination, media houses gather for their 9:00am circle up in the Board Room. Before their espresso, they all stand, place a hand on their heart and sing their pledge of allegiance to their Government - a rousing chorus of a Wet Wet Wet anthem that haunted us in 1994, with altered lyrics. Altogether now, 5, 6, 7, 8:
I feel it in my toes.
Fear is all around us.
And so the feeling grows.
It's written on the wind.
It's everywhere they go.
So if they really fear me.
Come on and let it show.
"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity."
The Second Coming - WB Yates
"The body is not a thing, it is a situation, our grasp on the world..."
Reflections on the year that was 2021.
Blog post header image: Sparkler 1 by Wout Vanacker - Unsplash.