Sunday, 5 March 2017

This Is Where I'm At | March

I think it's funny that we always consider spring a new beginning. When the evenings show me how much further they can stretch the light, I don't think 'ah, it's lighter, like it was in October'. I think that this is a miraculous and brand new thing.

I'm grateful to February for its four short weeks.

I spent the first half of the month counting down to the day where I could set my out of office email and bask in annual leave and a few days of escapism joining Bry on his UK tour. I got a three and a half hour coach from London to Cardiff, and managed 3 hours and 10 minutes before throwing up in its toilet closet. I got to have lunch with my in-laws and surprise Bry with their presence at his show. I got to watch Danny Gruff and Tessa Violet play their great songs, and I got to dance to British indie rock then eat panda-shaped birthday cake at 3am.

I do worry I'm falling into an old habit. I'm still counting down to a point in the future where I'll have everything I want. And yet, here in the present, I'm doing nothing to make everything I want happen. The advice from a Fulbright scholar in my third-last week of university rings in my ears. 'I always used to say, don't worry: Future Self will take care of it'. She was talking about writing essays. I don't think my future self can cram all my hopes and dreams the night before they're due.

I bookended the month with Hacksaw Ridge and Lion, loving both for different reasons. I got better at making time for stories in February - whether they were mine or someone else's. I kept watching Girls on those evenings spent at home alone, and kept asking myself why I was watching it. Sometimes one of the characters will vocalise an ugly, selfish thought I've played in my head and it makes me want to turn it off forever. I read 'The Hate U Give', a stunning debut novel from Angie Thomas. It was a fitting novel to read during US Black History Month, and I'd highly recommend it.

Okay. A short post for a short month. I look forward to March, filled with even more light.

Yours, full of spaghetti,