This one is for those of us whose years still haven’t fully begun.Â
The ones who woke up on January 1st and didn’t feel the overwhelming urge to proclaim ‘New Year, New Me’ (or something equally well-meaning but trite). The ones who haven’t yet made plans for 2023, or even responded to all their New Year texts. The ones whose minds, and maybe bodies, are still on vacation. The ones struggling to climb out of that sweet eggnogy December lull. The ones who are still processing last October. The ones for whom January is the true month of hibernation and slowness.Â
There is a point at which your year ‘officially begins’. When you whip out a calendar, make a vision board or an elaborate to-do list, start planning social engagements and stepping out. At this point, you have accepted that you will be walking into a life that’s much the same, but also, somehow, different.
In 2020, this point was January 3rd for me. In 2021, it was February. Last year, it was somewhere between March and April. Each consecutive year, as I’ve practiced more mindfully creating goals and approaching life, I’ve learnt that it takes me longer to begin a year.
When I once shared this on my Instagram, a whole bunch of people DM’d me saying how much it resonated, this need to take time off at the start of the year and keep to ourselves. It can feel like we're trying to regain something we’ve lost before we meet the world again.Â
I’ve been thinking about that sentiment, that reluctance, that effort, that sadness. There is a sadness, is there not?Â
Like the first time you speak or write the date '2023' and are overcome by a strange need to cry. Or when you stand wrapped in itchy January tinsel and it strikes you that the spirited ritual of setting up a Christmas tree will always be followed by the somber task of unadornment.
Or while reflecting on the joys and sorrows of 2022, you realize that there is no time left to go and add to that specific list. Do you also feel that pointed, heavy drop into the bottomless canyon of your chest? What is that and where is it headed?!
Those pricks of pain so quick that you almost miss it, that ambiguous, pervasive not-okayness, all of it spells one thing – grief.
A while ago, I realized that for many of us, the first few weeks (or months!) of a year is a time of deep grief.Â
Like many others, I believe that grief is some form of unexpressed love. So if you had a good year, you may grieve how much more of yourself you could have explored or grown into during that unique and non-repeating stretch of time.Â
If it was a crappy one, you may grieve that it didn't have more time to get better (because some of us believe that everything and everyone can get better with enough time).Â
We grieve the infinity of our souls getting such limited containers to express themselves. We grieve time and space, which will never set quite the same stage ever again. We grieve the hard-earned wonders and miracles and discoveries and communion of a year as they are heavy-handedly spliced into another.Â
We grieve.Â
We grieve.Â
The pink trumpets have already begun blooming, spring is near. Soon there will be sweltering summer and at some point, endless rain. There will be your best friend's birthday again, and then your own, and you will have no choice but to weather that tedious month of September. All of it will return, but not the same.
You too will walk back into a year, not quite the same.Â
But before all of that, there is this season of sacred grief. A moment to honour what was and can never be again. A moment to acknowledge that it all matters, the splendid, the sordid, the mundane, the in-betweens, the patches that held you together, the stitches no one sees.Â
A moment, just a fleeting fucking moment, to wither into all of this lush grief before you sprout again, renewed, ready, raring to go.Â
Take your moment, dearest. Lord knows I'm taking mine.Â
💌
Love,
SoumyaÂ
Recommended reads 📚
Our city lives have gotten lonelier since the pandemic. Or maybe we just notice how isolated we always were?
Best friends are a recent phenomenon. Before there were ‘dear friends’ and ‘sentimental friends’. Some folks want to go back to that, and they have a good reason.
Our brains do not actually ‘process information’. All that computer lingo is just a metaphor! (fav read #2)
The more woke words we know, the less we actually end up saying… and conveying! Are you also hiding behind language?
How to write a poem about nature.
Want to make new friends? Don’t go looking for friends, seek companions instead. (fav read #1)
Art offering 🌸
I spent many, many days in December walking around the Kochi-Muziris Biennale, sometimes with a friend and at other times, alone. I realized that there is sweet communion in returning to an altar and worshiping surrounded by other worshippers (I know, I know, very ex-religio of me!). Jokes aside, what an altar art is!
Since some of you mentioned that you intend to visit the Biennale over the next few months (it’s on till April and you absolutely must!), I put together an achievable Do Not Miss List for you:
Aspinwall House
Devi Seetharam’s paintings of Keralite men in public spaces.
DAAR’s lightbox exhibit on Palestinian refugee heritage spaces.
Martta Tuomaala’s rap documentary on Finland’s political crisis.
Sahil Naik’s immersive experience room on the history of Goa’s Curdi village.
Thai Nguyen Phan’s poetic documentary on the history of Vietnam and the Mekong River.
Anju Acharya’s anatomical drawings and paintings connecting diverse life forms.
Gabriel Goliath’s Chorus on South African femicides.
Pepper House
Seher Shah’s Notes from a City Unknown screen print and poetry exhibit.
Nepal Picture Library’s Public Life of Women photo exhibit. (One of the few works that uses joy as a form of reclamation and resistance!)
Anand Warehouse
Amar Kanwar’s Such a Morning documentary and installations.
Thank you for reading! 💞
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Dear Soumya, thank you for this gift. I know this is going to be something I’m going to come back to read over and over in the waking hours gifted by my numerous painkillers. I have been sick for as long as I can remember now and the year didn’t bring any promises or hope for in the immediate future. I have mostly just felt pain in varying degrees and have unprocessed feelings from last year that I have shut out when the time sped fast in to another year already. My year hasn’t begun and it’s going to begin in my own pace later when I’m ready - I have been saying this to a couple of friends who’ve been feeling this weight too and the expectations it’s thrusting upon us, while all we want is to grieve. How reassuring was it to read your letter, and to know that your year began in Feb and then in March and April, and that many others resonated with this notion of yours in your socials. Yes, I also feel that pointed, heavy drop into the bottomless canyon of my chest, and the all pervasive non okayness. I have kept gratitude on the side and I’ll wallow in this for sometime. Before I sprout again into this lush and perhaps beautiful year in store later, thank you, thanks a million for penning this down and sending it our way. I cannot afford to cry but I have some imaginary tears, good jujus and sparkles your way. God bless you. 💛💛💛
Hi Soumya, I was experiencing a brief period of grief this year in an unexpected form. Through this, I've been thinking infinitely to myself that my year didn't start well I had no control over this but had earlier on January 1st planned a neat elaborate year with Goals to achieve.
I just happen to come across your writing in my email. Sometimes Universe answers in ways unknown. Today, Your story here showered me with a new perspective that it is perfectly okay to start the year on our own terms than in ways we are conditioned to. We need to keep marching forward. Keep writing more of these unique thought process Girl! More power to you💕