2016: the year of the Present

2015 was the year of liminality. I was living more and more in the future. I claimed to be spontaneous but was constantly planning and organising so I knew exactly what I was doing in an hour, three days, or four weeks. A few years ago, my photography teacher introduced me to the idea of liminal spaces — airports, bus stops, doorways, hallways, a state of disorientation and confusion, a space in time for waiting. Since then, I’ve been obsessed with this idea of liminal spaces because, essentially, I felt trapped in one.

The best way to describe how I have maneuvered this odd thing called my existence is to walk the Tongariro crossing. I’ve always been on the initial path — it’s easy, there’s some nice scenery, beautiful hills on both sides and there’s a new flashy wooden path leading you further and further in. I recently returned from five months living in the Netherlands as part of an exchange programme with my university. This, on the Tongariro crossing friends, is what’s called the Devil’s Staircase. It’s steep, the stairs are worn, it winds, it makes you want to cry. Just when you think you’ve almost reached the top, it becomes pretty evident you’ve only reached the halfway point. From memory, this is where the cellphone reception cuts out and you’re wondering what the hell you did in a past life to deserve this burn in your thighs while your mouth begins to forget moisture ever existed— all while pretending that an oncoming sneeze is responsible for the tears in your eyes and, you’re not in fact, crying. I hated the first two months abroad. I knew it would be tough being the homebody I am but I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming loneliness. It suffocates you, there’s really no other way to describe it. Some days going to the supermarket was anxiety-inducing. Coming home and having no one to tell your small victories of the day to or spending the evening cooking the most beautiful meal while there’s a vibrant magenta sunset so breathtaking happening just outside your window, sitting down to enjoy it and not having one person to share the moment with is soul-destroying.

I had gone over with the hopes of potentially securing a job in the UK after the exchange and beginning my quintessentially Kiwi rite of passage in London. I had, essentially, no real end date of when this whole ordeal was going to be over. That ruined me. I spent nights crying to my mum over WhatsApp about how much I “fucking hate it” and that I wanted to come home. I told myself I couldn’t though — I’d saved too much money, I’d invested the whole year waiting for this incredible opportunity and I wasn’t about to throw in the towel. I was finally living for what I had been waiting for the last few years and I hated it. In late September I booked a ticket home to return just before Christmas and the uncertainty of the future disappeared, I eventually settled into a routine and began to enjoy my time. I’m now at the top of the Devil’s Staircase — it was the most emotionally challenging time of my life but I’m at the top and the view is beautiful.

Before I left, I was waiting waiting waiting to leave. I complained about my job. I looked at the calendar counting the days then months then weeks as though somehow it would make the time seem shorter. Since beginning university in 2013 I realised I thoroughly hated it but I refused to give up. I was waiting for my third and final year and before that I was waiting to finish high school so I could finally move onto university. Tenacity, or rather pig-headedness is one of my strongest traits if that wasn’t apparent already.

Now that I’m home, I’m a mess. I sleep late only to go back to sleep several hours after waking. I’m only reading terrible books I’ve read when I was younger as though my little brain is too fragile to handle anything but familiarity. I don’t know if this is what they call post-travel depression. I’m mourning for the life I had for the second half of 2015: the independence, the two best friends I made, my improved confidence and self-assuredness. I do, however, have an awful feeling this is because I have no plans for 2016. Quite literally zero. I am looking for a job, I’m waiting to “invest in a career in Media” (Ali [covering letter], 2015). For the first time in my life, I have no plans and no idea of what the future holds. I am mourning the past now that the future does not exist. I have finished 2015 knowing that I am essentially unable to live in the present.

It makes me embarrassed to think that each chapter of my life thus far, and the transitions between these moments in time, have never been exceedingly difficult. I’ve always put this down to the utmost organisation which characterises me so clearly, the simple fact that this is the most intelligent decision. I’m an intelligent woman, a Dean’s list student so the decisions I have made have obviously been for the best. High school would inevitably lead to university, yes I should obviously chose the fixed term position over the permanent if it makes me happy, of course it is the opportunity of a lifetime to study abroad and I should not pass this up. But perhaps this type of inevitability will ruin me. I’m not adaptable, I’m static and liminal.

I’m beginning the walk away from the Devil’s Staircase now, it’s a wide barren plain and I sure as hell have no idea what is over the stony hill in the distance.

I refuse to make resolutions for this year because if I’m honest with myself they never work. I’ve gained 5kgs since I left for the Netherlands so you’d think healthy eating and exercise would be one. But no, not this year. I refuse to make resolutions but I’m not refusing change. I’m going to be more flexible. I’m going to be adaptable and willing to do more. I’m finally going to step out of the airport, out from the doorway or jump on the next bus that comes. I am going to be present in 2016. I’m allowed to be bored — that’s okay, it means I’m responding to the now. I have vague ideas of what I want to achieve this year but that’s the extent of my intentions for this beautiful new year. There’s something wondrously enticing about a new year, the past can be the past and the chance for that metaphorical fresh start is charged with conviction.

Liminality is characterised by three stages. First, is the separation from experience. The liminal space itself is the second. I’ve been here for awhile now. Finally, assimilation is the final stage, the leap back into spaces which are present. I want to set up a nice picnic with some grapes and club sandwiches and a cheeky bottle of wine in that barren plain in the Tongariro crossing. I want to cross my arms under my head and enjoy the sun on my face without worrying about the wine getting too warm or the chicken in the sandwiches going off. I am assimilating into the present, and the present sounds like a neat place to begin this year.