Do you ever wish you could have an ending like a comedian dropping the mic and disappearing off stage? I do. ‘Thank you and goodbye’. Boom! Gone.
Prolonged goodbyes have become something of a fixation for me… since I discovered it’s ok to mark endings. The goodbye bit is not even the hardest bit, it’s the thank you. I get so full up with love and gratitude and awe (and a whole load of other more slippery emotions), for the people in my life who have helped or inspired me in some way, that I fear I might burst right in front of them – explode and cover them in my vulnerability. Soak them, like a popped water balloon. I often write something clumsy and awkward in a card, to avoid thanking them to their face – less sticky.
In that vain, I am writing a thank you letter to the year that is ending:
Dear 2022,
Thank you for no lockdowns and a semblance of normality. A new normal. I am grateful for all of the people I have met and connected with; some briefly, others not so briefly. Thank you for the continuing relationships in my life – as this year draws in and I hurriedly write multiple Christmas cards, I register that I know a lot of people. This surprises me still, though I hope to be less overwhelmed by this in the coming years, that I may learn to embrace it. That said, I am taking steps to simplify my life a little – I am thankful for finally resolving some difficult decisions this year.
I am grateful to 2022 for giving my father another year – I wonder if 2023 will bring with it the final goodbye, although I’ve wondered that every year since 2017. I hope to reconcile within myself that I will never feel prepared for the death of a loved one, and for that to be ok. Thanks to my therapy this year, I do feel more settled in myself than I did this time last year; more confident, considerably less anxious, clearer-headed, more open to love… and loss. That’s the best preparation I can possibly hope for.
This was going to be a post about ambivalence. But I changed my mind. As I write this instead, an understanding deepens and takes shape, that it is about much more than saying goodbye to one year. In January, a whole decade of my life will be ending. I hope the next decade is less eventful; on a personal, national and global level. I know, this is a big hope. A big wish.
I have lost count of the number of people I have said goodbye to this year – working in the NHS and charity sector has meant many wonderful colleagues leaving; as we all grapple with the post-lockdown mental health crisis. I have had the urge, repeatedly, to drop everything and walk off stage. Jump ship. Into what?
I didn’t jump and the ship didn’t sink. Then it dawned on me… we’re not even on a ship and we’re not lost at sea. We are climbing a mountain and might nearly be at the top, although it’s hard to say for sure. I pause, close my eyes and breathe the mountain air deeply into my lungs. When I open my eyes again, I am surrounded by swifts darting and diving, flying so close to the heather but never touching the ground. We pass narrow streams as they wind and whirl their way down the mountain. I sense I will reach the summit at dusk, in summer.
From the top I will look down and instantly be home; observing the city lights glimmer on, one by one. I will hear ambulance sirens close by, a toad rustling in my semi-wild garden, the faint fast whistle of a bat whizzing past my ear. I will feel the peace and contentment in my gut as my children sleep soundly in their beds. I can see their bedroom windows. I notice my dog sniff the air around us, I watch him wait for a signal that it’s time for him, too, to go to bed. A light comes on and I see the figure of my partner moving around the kitchen. I turn to stare at the city lights once more, and the last faint glow of sunset on the horizon. I look up and wait… for my eyes to adjust to the gently glinting stars against the darkening sky. Some things, I hope, will not change next year, or the one after that.
Right now though, it is winter. I am grateful for the few bright frosty days we had before the Christmas rain came. For just enough snow to take the children sledging. And for friends, for reminding me there can be magic at Christmas time. Thank you. Goodbye.
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