All things new.

For the last few years, I haven’t made New Year’s resolutions in the typical sense. I used to do that whole thing of portioning out goals for each aspect of my life, and I’m not against that, it just doesn’t happen organically for me anymore. Rather, the last few years for me have seen one key idea come to light, one concept that I’m able to hold in the forefront of my mind and consider for the length of a year. Usually it’s vague on specifics but generous with an ideal. One year it was “just say yes,” which was an experiment in me saying yes to things I’d normally want to say no to. Another year it was “holy confidence / bold love,” and that one became so important that I recycled it and reused it for the next year. I still catch myself pondering and praying about this idea now.

As the end of 2013 approached, I hadn’t really formulated one idea to keep with me throughout 2014. As I mentioned earlier, 2013 – especially the latter half – was rough for so many around me. In my own life, 2013 felt characterised by weakness and what I saw as a failure to be a thriving, productive adult. I was napping more, reading less, and seemingly getting through very little in a day even though I felt ridiculously busy and pulled in several directions at once.

At the same time, though, I was feeling the need to pull back on the things in my life that were leaving me emotionally, mentally, and physically depleted. But the thought of doing that made me feel ashamed and guilty. As a maturing adult, I should be fitting more into my life, not less. I should be doing more, being more, and achieving more, right? Instead, I was embarrassed about the fact that I actually felt like I needed sleep for the first time in my life, as well as for the tears that started to come a lot more readily to my eyes. “What are you crying about?” “Um, just nothing and everything.”

As so often happens (and this is where I believe God speaks to me, in all these little encouragements and markers, even though the idea is controversial), in the last weeks of 2013 and the first weeks of 2014, I kept stumbling across resources that pushed me towards an unexpected sort of goal for the new year. Via John Green’s tumblr, I stumbled across Woody Guthrie’s ‘New Year’s Rulin’s’ from January 1st, 1943 and was particularly struck by two of his incredible resolutions: ‘Keep Hoping Machine Running’ and ‘Wake Up and Fight.’ On the 7th of January, I re-read the age-old comforting words of Jesus: ‘my power is made perfect in weakness.’ I felt condemned – the good sort of condemned, mind you, the sort that makes you take action – when I read Emily Freeman’s chilling admonition in Grace for the Good Girl: ‘You have trained people to think you have no needs, but you are secretly angry with them for believing you.’

At the movies to see Frozen for my little brother’s birthday, the lyrics of ‘Let It Go’ restated this in a whole new way. While the music soars around her, Elsa sings, ‘The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside / Couldn’t keep it in, heaven knows I’ve tried. / Don’t let them in, don’t let them see / Be the good girl you always have to be. / Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know./ Well now they know.’ Later, she shouts, ‘Let it go, let it go / And I’ll rise the break of dawn. / Let it go, let it go / That perfect girl is gone.’ I listened to the words, and I thought, yes.

 I have always thought of myself as an advocate for authenticity. Growing up slightly in the public eye as early-generation homeschoolers in New South Wales, there was a lot of emphasis placed on appearance. People would frequently seek out my family to see what the fuss was about: can people homeschool their kids and have them turn out okay? Even more importantly: can we please have a blueprint for feminine Christian perfection? My sisters and parents and I recognised back then that this hope of cookie-cutter perfection was really unhealthy, and we strove in our own personal ways to fight against that. If it meant being honest about our flaws and the choices we made that might not align to other peoples’ ideas, then we tried to do that. People were frequently disillusioned when they met us. ‘Oh you’re normal and you don’t look like you came out of the pages of Perfect Holy Family Today? How disappointing.’ It was uncomfortable but important to us to be real. And I guess I thought that this was enough to make me into an honest person who didn’t overtly strive to present a certain image.

What 2013 has shown me is that while I told myself I was an advocate for authenticity, what I was really doing was being authentic about some of my life. Without even knowing I was doing it, I was giving people a sterilised version of my reality. ‘Yes, I went through this tough patch and here’s what I learnt.’ ‘Oh, it was a real struggle when this happened.’ ‘Yeah, I’ve wrestled with this, too.’ All past tense, all ‘my mess was back then; today I am okay.’ I wasn’t consciously holding back information; I just had subsconsciously decided that some of the nitty gritty of my life was too toxic for other people to handle. Also, I didn’t want people to know I was so pathetic. I mean, there’s weakness and then there’s weakness, right? If you break your arm, you deserve sympathy, but if a link in your brain is broken, you just need to grow up – or at least, this is how I saw it when applied to myself.

I made my own personal weakness a bad thing, and I made it shameful. What’s more, by assuming that my weakness was the dumb weakness and all other weaknesses were fine, I downplayed my family and friends’ love. In other words, I wasn’t trusting them to keep loving me even though I was being pathetic. Ouch. Weak and kind of a jerk.

What that all means for my 2014 is this: I aim to find peace with my weakness. To be truly honest, this feels weird, particularly since there are weak areas of my life that I know I need to be stronger in – and that’s okay. But if God’s strength is made perfect in weakness, then weakness begins to look less like ineffectiveness and more like opportunity.

I want to hold this in balance, however. Woody Guthrie’s ‘keep the hoping machine running’ and ‘wake up and fight’ remind me not to make weakness my identity. After all, this is just as deluded as making strength my identity. I won’t run to weakness, embrace it, gather more around me. But I won’t be ashamed of it, either. I won’t believe the lie that no one can love me if they see my flaws. I will try not to freak out about the fact that I have just paraded my frailty on the internet for all to see. And I will do my best not to berate myself when I need to take a step away and say, ‘Sorry; I’m not quite strong enough to do that.’

Being able doesn’t make me a better person and being unable doesn’t make me a worse person. It just makes me human.

(This post was written in response to Truth Thursday's #21 theme, All Things New.)

Raw/roar.

It’s not difficult for me to say goodbye to 2013. If we graded our years like we grade our movies, 2013 would not get five stars. I’d probably put it at a solid two and a half.

There were great things about 2013. I’m alive, and the people I love are alive. There’s grace, and that makes the living worthwhile. There are babies to squish, and FaceTime to look at their faces when they’re far away. People made my life better: among them, movie dates with Laura, texts and visits with Meaghan, my Thursday night crew who simply cannot stay on track with a Bible study and it is perfect, letters and emails from faraway people who don’t hear from me as much as they deserve. My mother was full of wisdom and grace, my sisters full of friendship and lives lived creatively. I have a job, and an amazing little houselet. I had my best semester of uni and, through one of my classes, was able to work on a project that grew my relationship with my grandmother in precious ways and opened my eyes to the beautiful and heartbreaking story of my great grandmother. I am blessed beyond the basics, and I have everything I need.

But there was a lot that was not great about 2013. And you don’t even necessarily recognise when you’re in it; you just look back and realise, whoa. That was hard. Mostly, it was stuff you can’t even see from the outside looking in, stuff that’s hard to talk about when it’s in media res. People I love went through some really hard and heartbreaking things for purposes that were not always clear. There were so many gaps between what was and what should be. There was a gap between what I imagine church can be and what my reality of it is. There was a gap between what I needed to do for my health and what I actually accomplished. There was a gap between what my faraway friends deserved from me in investment of time and friendship, and what they actually got. A friend who was growing to take a very important place in my life moved away from here. My creativity shrivelled up – or at least appeared to. And one of my jobs left me grinding my teeth and with tension headaches at the end of my workday.

In 2013, even normal daily activities were difficult. I was unwell physically, mentally, and emotionally for about half the year. I have never had so little energy before; it was a whole new experience, and one that left me feeling weak and useless and frightened. I was let down by some friends, let down by my own body, and I felt let down by God. There is, of course, a great difference between feeling let down by God and actually being let down by God, but the former makes the latter seem truer. In reality there was grace everywhere – there always is – but it didn’t necessarily come in the forms I was looking for or thought I needed.

At the end of each year, I tend to look for growth. In 2013, I see very little. But the knowledge that I am here writing about a lack of growth is its own small growth spurt. In a way, the fact that I can write this at all is testament to some level of peace with a lack of answers.

This year, I found myself drawn to a lot of stories in films and books that were content to finish unresolved – without all the loose ends tied up. As a child, I would have been uncomfortable with these unresolved resolutions; after all, if nothing appears to have actually changed, how is it the end? But in the best of these stories – or the ones that I think are the best – while things may look the same on the outside, on the inside there is a spark of something new, a spark of hope that says things may not be different tomorrow or next week, but they are going to change. Things will happen. Aslan is on the move.

I’m reminded of a conversation I had with my uncle and aunty when they visited later in the year. We were talking about the conceit of believing that Christianity means that everything will be fine. “Everything won’t be happy,” my uncle said. “But everything will have meaning, right?” I asked, maybe a little tentatively. And you know how sometimes, even as you voice something you already believe, it becomes a little truer for you than it did before, a little bit more fully embedded in your soul? That happened then.

2013 was not great. It ended, unresolved, leaving as many unanswered questions as it did answered ones. But if there was not a great deal of investment in happiness in 2013, there was certainly an investment in meaning, and faith, and significance. What’s more, that little spark of something is burning bright within, and it looks a lot like the hope that comes with the new year. Here’s to you, 2014.

And here is where the words roll up the screen, Star Trek style:

I saw in the baby new year -- the 9pm version -- with my parents and my brother, my sister and her wee family, and my cute goddaughters and their parents. There were fireworks*, people jammed all over the paths lining the oversized pond (the one at the bottom of our hill, that likes to think it's a lake) and then there were queues for ice cream and finally peanut butter Cold Rock with nutella mixed in, dripping all down my fingers because I couldn't eat it quicker than December was melting it.

At about ten, I got in the car and drove to a friend's place about half an hour away. His new house is still in christening mode and a bunch of people were gathered for games and conversation (yeah, we party hard). Midnight snuck up on us and we fumbled through a really rushed countdown before the happynewyears began. About ten minutes later, Tim remarked on our somewhat pathetic countdown efforts and suggested a do-over. I was so on that. So four of us (the four most mature?) raced outside and did a proper countdown with shouts and cheers, and that felt like the right way to see in a new year.

"So is anyone making any resolutions?" asked Emma, whom I'd just met for the first time. She looked right at me and I was startled into saying the thing that was at the forefront of my mind.

"Just a word, really, one word to sort of... guide my approach to the year" -- or something like that. And though thoughout the week before I'd had three words jostling for the supremacy, three words which would all make sense, all be worthwhile ways to sally forth into a new year, when she asked what the word was, it just popped out, and my resolution was fully birthed.

"Boldness."

"Boldness?" asked another friend, Cath.

"Yep," I said. "Basically I'm a wimp."

Cath raised her eyebrows. "No."

"Yes." And when she looked skeptical, I had to confess: "I'm pretty good at faking brave."

So.  

Bold. That is my word for the year, and if it sounds similar to things I've said in previous years, then that makes sense, because it's the same thing God's been drumming into my brain for a while now. 'Because I'm scared' doesn't cut it as an excuse any more, even just in my own head, and though I've been getting better at not using 'it freaks me out' as an escape hatch, I definitely still have a way to go.

It took a small dose of bold even just to write about it here, because part of being a wimp is being scared of failure, and part of being scared of failure is being intimidated by the judgement of others. Hi, others. Now I've told you about my plans, you are perfectly able to watch me fail. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but notice the smack-in-the-face-with-a-wet-fish obviousness of last night's devotional reading, though. Philippians 1:6. It's a good promise for a new year.

----------

*A kid about eight years old was roaring NO GET IT AWAAAAAY MAKE THEM STOOOOP and a tiny baby was cooing and kicking her legs and grinning.

5/100 (letter to a closing year)

Dear two thousand and twelve,

Dude. I feel like you've been hanging in the shadows a bit. One moment you're on the way, and the next moment -- or so it seems -- you're leaving. It's my fault, really. I should have paid more attention to you. I should have slowed down, stopped to look at you from a different angle, analysed you, explored you. Instead, I got caught up in living and you drifted by while I was hardly noticing.

I have to say, 2012, you're not my favourite year. We don't part as best friends, that's for sure. But we're definitely not enemies, either. There are things you failed to provide, but there are many many things you brought with you, too: opportunities for writing, learning, working, and being challenged. I'm especially thankful for doors that opened onto new chances to learn from clever people, and the privilege/burden/adventure of getting to do some brain-moulding of my own -- not wisely or well, but with gusto at least.

While spending your year, 2012, I let slip old habits which I'd once thought very important, and formed others that I hope might stick around a little better. Some friendships got shuffled around in the busyness of the everyday humdrum, and suffered for it. Other friendships -- some of them surprising -- blossomed and deepened into very cool things (it's always the unexpected ones). Still other relationships -- the long-term ones, the friends-forever ones -- grew solidly and well with only the much-loved, occasional watering and sunshine of face-to-face meetings.

2012, you answered some questions I hadn't even realised I'd been asking, some that had been floating around in the back of my mind and heart since I was a little kid. That was a gift I'm very thankful for. But the gift of the year -- your crowning glory, 2012 -- is the one you brought in September: a new nephew to love on and squish. Thanks for that.

I feel like you passed by unreported and unexamined in some aspects and I wish I'd had -- made -- taken more time to really look at you while you were here. But you're leaving now and I think it's for the best. You were good, 2012, but (and no hard feelings here) I'm ready to replace you with another.

Leave the door open for 2013, will you? It's soon to be shuffled in straight from the Timemaster.

Farewell,

Danielle

Ready:

When I was in my early teens, a so much more grown up young woman friend of mine told me how she would meet each new year: at her little writing desk, with candles all around her, scribbling down her reflections on the end of the annum. It sounded amazing, and is probably a large part of the reason I want to get all reflective whenever the year draws to a close.

But new years around here invariably flip over amid a buzz of busyness, leaving little time for journal-scribbling, candlelighting, or serious pondering. It's inconsiderate, really; oughtn't a new year make its entrance at a less busy time than, you know, the end of the year? Nevertheless, even though I sometimes crave a stop-and-pause, I'd rather be living life at the end of the year than just reflecting on it.

Sometimes a new year feels more lonely than anything else. I think I'm an optimist because I seem to expect the best and then get disappointed when my dreams don't come true. And sometimes, the big moments remind me of what's missing from my life, rather than what's already there. This new year, however, there was no room for loneliness or loss. Instead, I was surrounded by my closest people -- my parents, my littlest brother, my sisters, and their adorable precious children.

All of us, the baby families branching off from the parent family, sat around for a big barbecue dinner together. We pulled crackers and read bad jokes and made glo-stick bracelets and haloes, even though the two brothers-in-law swore they wouldn't go out with us if we wore them, even though we swore we wouldn't take them off. The girls won, and the guys accompanied the glowing girls and the children down the hill where we met with hundreds of other locals for fireworks at 9pm. Grammy stayed home to mind the babies, who were sleeping, and Amelia promised she would 'remember all the colours to tell Grammy.'

Home again, the children went to bed and the guys went out for some late-night fishing, leaving my sisters and my parents and me. For just those few hours, and with the exception of my brother Nick in WA, it was like old times again before there were any weddings or babies or people living all over Australia. I wouldn't go back -- I don't think any of us would -- but it was special to be in that place for one evening, and we sat and ate chocolates and watched a movie together and rushed outside when midnight hit, shouting happiness in our own chilled way.

It was a good start to 2012, one that left me more satisfied and less introspective than some new years. I don't have any great conclusions drawn from the months of 2011, only that, as I told friends in my Christmas newsletter, it felt like a settled year, particularly externally. Internally, there is always more to learn. 2011 was the first year I felt genuinely worried about grown up things like financial stability and making preparations for the future. Of course, I've thought about those things a lot, but last year was the first time I really felt them lean toward me in a menacing way. 2011 was also the year I discovered not one but several grey hairs. Do these two events go hand-in-hand? Perhaps.

Life highlights life, it seems, and brings to light everything we are as well as everything we're not. Living with my family once again brought into sharp focus my at times life-sucking sense of insecurity and my failures to truly love as Christ teaches us to love. While I've heard forever that we must find our worth and our identity in Christ, I've never really understood what that meant. "That's just a pretty phrase and no one will explain to me how to do that!!" sums it up, basically. But over the past few months I've been mulling over this whole identity thing, and realising it goes way, way back to creation. Our worth -- my worth, your worth -- cannot stem from what we do or how we act, what we have or what we make, whether we are creative or fabulous or funny or sweet or loving or saintly or brave. Rather, this worth is something quite apart from us, imbued because we are made by a great God who saw what He'd done and called it very good. Nothing we do changes that. It's all about Him.

So this year I haven't made resolutions as such. I'm just praying that I'll understand this more and live it out more. I desire holy confidence and bold love, fuelled by God and in imitation of Christ.

Welcome, 2012. We're ready for you.

* * * * *

Conversations:

Anonymous -- I'm glad it was an encouragement :).

Shaina -- thank you so much for your kind comment! It made my heart leap to get a comment from the lady whose blog inspired this whole Project 52 journey!

Joy -- thank you so much! And all the same back to you :).

Chantel -- yay!! I'm so glad you enjoyed it! And do let me know if you give those cookies a try. xx

Sarah -- happy new year to you, too!

The year of yes.

It's kind of terrible, but I can't actually remember whether I made new year's resolutions for 2010 or not. I suppose it doesn't really matter; it would appear that God has his own secret resolutions and goes about setting up little sovereign obstacle courses so I learn the things that he wants me to.

Around December, I started thinking about what 2010 had looked like for me. In spite of the lack of resolutions (or forgetting the presence of resolutions, if I made any), I'd noticed a pattern in the days and seasons and happenings of my year. The theme that kept appearing was the idea of saying yes. And now that I've been pondering it for a while, I can almost imagine God writing the resolutions list for me. Right at the top of it: This the year that Danielle will learn to say yes. I think of it as 'The Year I Said Yes When I Wanted to Say No'.

You should know that I'm pretty much a total wimp. While I am usually composed during more traditional high-pressure situations, I am a complete fraidy-cat about some of the most simple things. Most of all (it would appear), I'm afraid of the unfamiliar, of being placed outside my comfort zone.

Usually, I've been able to get by with avoiding the comfortless zone as much as possible, but in 2010 I began to get the message loud and clear that being scared of something is never enough of a reason to say no. While wisdom may dictate something is dangerous or unhealthy and should be avoided, simple fear is not a legitimate motivation for taking a step back. With that sad discovery, my whole argument for avoiding many terrifying things was pulled out from under me.

This meant that I lived alone. I travelled insterstate by myself. I drove to unfamiliar places armed only with my totally incompetent map-reading skills. I killed spiders and cockroaches. I went to conferences without a pal for support. I called tradesmen and talked to them about stupid things of which I know nothing, things like pool pumps and stuff. I accepted favours even when I had nothing to give in return. I made sudden u-turns into strange territory. I answered the phone when I didn't recognise the number (we have already established I'm a baby, yes). I had to sew my mouth shut to avoid making disclaimers or explaining away just for the sake of feeling secure. I was sometimes even -- wait for it -- spontaneous.

Of course, these are all things most normal grown ups do every day of their lives without batting an eyelid. But in the past, I've mostly wanted to say no. For 2010, God decided this was no longer acceptable and -- you know what? -- most of that stuff turned out to be incredibly less scary than I'd imagined. Turns out it's actually fun looking after a house all by yourself. And travelling alone means you meet the people around you instead of just spending all the time chatting to your companions. You can fake that you know what you're talking about when it comes to tradesmen. As for map-reading, practice doesn't necessarily make perfect but it does make passable. And I might even like driving a little bit. Of course, killing spiders is still icky and disgusting and terrifying and sickening but -- I do know that I can actually do it without throwing up.

So in 2010 I learnt to say yes, if not always then certainly more than I have done in the past. God had a better resolution in mind than any I could have come up with, and I'm so thankful. I've got no clue what's going to happen in 2011 (my friend Anastasia predicted that 2011 will be the year of saying no, which made me think about the principle of saying no to good things so you can say yes to the best ones). It'll be exciting to see what unfolds.

* * * * *

Conversations:

Amanda (1) -- thank you! It's good to be back, and dry.

Samantha R -- let's hope your rain isn't as epic as that here!

Amanda (2) -- thanks for your prayers. This state needs them. x

Katie -- love! I hope your own road trip was wonderful.

Hey, eleven

I'm a big fan of brand new years, but not a fan of new year's eve. I like fresh beginnings, but the celebration of the end always seems slightly deflating. For me, being in the middle of a giant crowd as the seconds count down to the calendar's turn feels more lonely than being cosy in bed with a journal and candlelight. Of course, I always forget that until afterwards when the bewilderment of it all begins to sink in. So I guess it's a good thing that this year's end will find me preparing for bed, possibly even sleeping already, with the alarm set for 4.30am and the promise of a kind of impromptu and definitely l-o-n-g road trip ahead.

I have some thoughts to share about what 2010 taught me, but I'll save them for my return -- when my brother and brother-in-law are not engaged in an intense mercy match which has already yielded one pair of pants split right down the seam. Yes, it's kind of difficult to concentrate. In the meantime, there may be updates at Twitter.

Goodbye, 2010. I think I'll miss you.

* * * * *

Conversations:

Katie -- all credit for Christmas light pictures goes to my camera, which makes my picture-making world so happy and easy.

Rebecca Simon -- thank you, lovely! <3

Asea -- that draws out the Christmas fun! And mail from Austria...!

Samantha R -- and I wish the same for you, too. xx

Amanda -- the colouring book is so adorable :).

Well here we are.

2010 is already one-twelfth dissolved into history, and that fraction has been a month very full for me and the people I love.
.
January was a flurry sandwiched between two weddings at the beginning and one at its end, filled in all its spaces with one interstate road trip, one interstate air trip (why do we not say air trip when we so easily say road trip?), my parents' move, thousands of words of essay writing, farewells as friends begin new lives elsewhere, and wedding planning.

.

And it all concluded with my sister Lauren and I spending nine days on the gorgeous West Australian coast. There, we hung out with our parents and littlest brother, enjoyed traipsing around their new neighbourhood, read books in the middle of the day, went to the movies with Mum and Tain, developed golden tans without even trying, saw dolphins, caught up with beloved friends for the first time in three years, cuddled a gorgeous brand new baby (who was conveniently born while we were in the state), watched a beautiful friend marry her bff, hung out with our big-little brother and his girlfriend, sipped espreskis at Dome(!), and remembered just how incredible WA really is.

.

The holiday finished today, as we cruised back into Brisbane above the sunrise (and through a rainbow) during a stormy dawn. At the end of such a delightful holiday, and galvanised with the halo of thoughts that a holiday always creates, this feels like the beginning of my 2010. I am ready to make things. To write letters. To welcome my excellent cousin Annie for five days. To start my second year of uni. To edit my novel. To wash loads of washing. To read great books.

To get better at that confusing aerobic dance workout. To keep a journal once again. To get to know more locals. To bake cupcakes.

.

Tomorrow. I'll start tomorrow. This evening, I will curl up on the lounge, watch a nice movie, and possibly even doze off.

So:

2010, you are just around the corner. I don't know you yet, and you are full of scary unknowns, but I hope we get along fine. I have just one resolve with which to greet you: to be happy. And not in the sort of "I-just-want-what-I-need-to-be-happy" but in the active, honest choosing of joy. Henri Nouwen said, "Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day."

I choose joy in 2010.

[I also choose to have a little blog hiatus. Life is busy in January including, among other things, three weddings in three different states of Australia! I'll see you all again in February. xx]

Hello, 2009

Meaghan delightfully suggested I "come back, already!" so I'm here, ready to jump into blog-land for 2009. My summer break was lovely and altogether too short, consisting of a diversity of small happinesses including birthday celebrations, Christmas day, canoeing, visits from loved ones, unexpected gifts of kindness and encouragement, reading in the middle of the day, sleeping in till embarrassing hours, melting in the Queensland humidity, and growing inspired about the fresh beginning.

I'm glad my blog didn't dissolve in the gaping void of inactivity. Sitemeter informs me that numerous visitors kept popping in via a Google search for polyphyria. I couldn't help but wonder how; have I ever used such a word? Turns out I have, in the discussion that took place on vampirism and the Twilight books over here. Obviously, my memory ain't what it used to be.

With the shiny newness of a fresh beginning, I find myself wondering what my blog's purpose ought to be in 2009. I know I'm determined to share more pictures, and to write better and oftener. But a part of me craves the narrowing freedom of a specific goal or theme. Life and faith? Writing? Books? So far, I've explored a bit of each, occasionally mentioning current affairs (which I generally know nothing about), too.

So I require your input, oh smartest of blog writers and readers: does your blog have a specific goal or theme? And if you were my blogging headmaster, what theme would you assign me?

I look forward to exploring 2009 with you.