Like most, if not all, of humankind on the planet, my eyes have been cast towards 2021 mid-way through (or earlier, even) the great pandemic year that has been 2020. Next year will be better, I chanted to myself internally numerous times, trying to siphon whatever optimism I could from that statement, even if just to power the simultaneous squealing and jumping around I was doing to amuse my two year old.
I began the year unceremoniously dumped in the gutters, without work for the first time in 15 years, so I, together with my colleagues, had a head start on the uncertainty and havoc that the pandemic, among other things, would wreak on our industry, and on many others.
By the time lockdown commenced, dressing in pajamas and enjoying nightcaps at 3pm had already been de rigeuer for me. And so ensued the cycles of daily life that constituted our year, at least from my perspective: decluttering, re-organizing, health scares, online grocery shopping, more decluttering, more re-organizing, more health scares, starting a quaran-business (yes, that is now a term) with old friends, daily viewings of Sofia the First, Elena of Avalor, Minnie's Bow Toons, et al, still more re-organizing to the point of moving heavy furniture up the stairs to the second floor, the inevitable obsession with Get Organized: The Home Edit on Netflix, many, many outbursts at the state of things in the country, and world.
My daughter and husband, dogs and plants kept me busy, but so did a score of other things that I did not expect. I did not make Dalgona coffee, banana bread, nor sushi bake, but I did start journaling again, filling up three whole journals in a span of 10 months. I deleted apps on my phone that helped me plan my life and schedule, and instead bought a Filofax-ish planner online and rediscovered my own handwriting. I read many of the books in my "to-read" stack that had barely been touched for years. I took a Creative Writing refresher course online, and wrote, wrote and wrote. I even started another blog just to flex my writing muscles, the precursor to this website. But all this was done under the shadow of the pandemic and the fear and uncertainty it brought. The whole time, the mantra of Next year will be better gave me something to hold on to mentally, and brought me smidgens of comfort, as I am sure it did for countless others.
Back in June, August, even October, January 1 seemed ages away, almost elusive. But now, as I type this, it will roll around in a matter of days. The countdown memes have been surfacing online, my personal favorite being the one ordering everyone to KEEP IT DOWN and not ask 2021 to "bring it on."
Ask anyone and they will tell you that 2020 was, at best, not what they expected, and at worst, life-destroying. With a change of calendar around the corner what should I be feeling, then? Relief? Anticipation? Excitement? What am I even expecting? What are we all expecting? Will getting vaccinated really bring about a sense of calm, of peace and an "Alright, that's it! Back to my old life now!" Understandably, we have looked to 2021 as a beacon of light in the distance, the Millennium Falcon swooping in to save us at the exact moment of imminent doom, Gandalf the White in a sudden, much needed vision of illumination, the page that turns to the chapter where the protagonist finally begins to overcome the challenge and the antagonist starts to bite the dust.
But even in a year that, to our modern sensibilities, has felt jaw-droppingly surreal, and by all accounts, terrifying and eerie, we obviously can't expect any of the aforementioned moments above.
We can't even expect A moment -- a singular, great moment that will swing the arrow gauge from "bad" to "good." We could all use one, though: a collective moment where we all synchronize our watches the world over, and hit that damn reset button, then pop the champagne and celebrate. Sounds like December 31, without the time zones, and with an honest to goodness reason to want to start over.
But there will be no such moment.
If we're lucky at all, things will get better gradually. It will take time -- play, pause, rewind, play, pause, rewind, and so forth. And here in the Philippines -- who are we even kidding -- recovery will most likely occur at a sloth's pace. The term "new normal" has grated on me since March, but nine months later, I find myself heaving a deep sigh and recognizing the gravitas in a term we (or is it I?) have flippantly thrown around.
I don't say all this to paint a picture of darkness, but mainly just to manage my own expectations. For my own mental health, I need to remind myself that the coming of January first does not promise anything.
I was extremely fortunate to be digging my toes into the sand earlier today, in my absolute favorite spot/beach in the world. I have spent many a week-after-Christmas-before-New-Year there in my lifetime, usually mulling over the year that was about to close while watching sunsets with a cold beer in hand. This time around was no different.
Anxiety, in all its regalia, introduced itself to me this past year. I realized earlier, while staring out at my daughter and husband splash around in the waves, that the thought of 2021 has made me feel more anxious, than relieved. We all just want to wipe the slate clean, but what if things, and things for me, in particular, don't get any better with the arrival of the new year? Then my slate never gets wiped clean, but just gets muddied up further for another trip around the sun?
I wish I could end this on an inspiring, heartwarming note and throw in something about "hope" and "soldiering on." But I look around this hole I'm in and there's nothing particularly uplifting to pass on. Not yet, at least.
And you know what? I think that's probably fine. I am alive, we are alive, and now we get to fully live the "Now what?" of THIS moment. I have nothing else to do but embrace it. Cheers.
2021 stretches out before us as a 365-day-long sheet of time with no markings or pinpricks or indicators. It makes zero promises, and yet we pile up all our silent hopes and secret dreams upon it.
Now hold my beer.