A year is too short

A year is too short. I don't know about you, but it takes me decades to change. Yet here we are at the end of the year, hearing everyone chirp on about their resolutions. And I am thinking, a year is too short.

At some level, four or five years ago, I decided I was ready to start becoming me. And when I consider the last few years, I can see I have moved in that direction. But the changes are gradual, incremental. I may have made lots of steps forwards, but I've taken almost as many back. And so the very idea of a new year's resolution leaves me cold. It sets me up for failure and self-blame, yet another area in my life where I can judge myself harshly.

On the other hand, having an ongoing commitment to become myself, to explore my capabilities, and to discover new things: now that has possibility. It doesn't rely on adherence to a policy or principle, and I can't stuff it up too badly. The worst I can say of a decision is that I should have trusted my instinct, and perhaps I can do better next time. This approach is about freedom and openings, rather than achievements and obedience. And it's borne all kinds of fruit.

Where once I was brittle, I am becoming tender. Once I shied away from babies, and turned down all offers to hold them; now I cuddle them for hours. If I can't hold my own, I hold someone else's.

From never singing, I now sing with other people often. I have discovered I can hold a tune, even an alto part in a choir. I sing to my children and teach them rounds, I sing as we walk to school, I sing late at night as I ride my bike through the dark streets. I have quite literally found my voice.

Once I felt weak. Now I visit the gym regularly. It's made me physically strong; and it's made me more confident and sure of myself in other areas of life. It's even changed my appetite so that I want to eat the sort of food new year's resolutions are made of.

I thought I was lousy with little kids. Now twenty of them crowd around me when I walk into a classroom, stroking my arms and telling me stories; my eyes fill with tears of gratitude.

I've been teaching myself to draw, craft and write, with satisfying results. I can sketch a recognisable portrait; I can make an Advent calendar; I can write a blog.

I don't know what's next. I have no ambition, no plans. The last few years have been so joy-filled in all their random areas of growth that I am content to stay on this track, with all its shuffling forward and stumbling back.

But it's good to discover that in so many areas where I thought I was hopeless, in so many areas I never explored - well, it seems my teachers underestimated me.

Perhaps they underestimated thee, too. And maybe that's the opportunity of the new year: to reflect and explore. But instead of resolving to avoid this or do that, reflect on ways of being, ways of becoming. Find a loose approach that is open to mystery and surprise. What calls you? What lies dormant but longs for expression? What is that gentle voice whispering now, what are its thyme-scented suggestions? What hope swirls in on the sea breeze and cuts through the stuffy house like a knife? Draw a deep breath. Relax. Listen.

Let's pretend this is a craft blog

It was so hot last week that I gave up writing and thinking, and did cutting and pasting instead. Nothing like an effortless and totally absorbing activity on a hot day. Gotta love it. So let's pretend this is a craft blog for a change.

Because here comes Christmas. I hate Christmas. I hate the shrieking signs in the shop windows and the fake snow spray paint when it's 35C. I hate the tinny Christmas carols that begin in October, and the urge to buy buy buy. I hate the plastic toys and the wrapping that bowls down the street when the northerly blows. I hate not having a big extended family or cousins with children and thereby an automatic Christmas crowd. I hate not knowing quite what we'll do on Christmas Day, or who we will spend it with. I hate Christmas trees in a hot climate, and roast meats in summer, and the obligatory Christmas pudding. And, probably, I hate that I had a minister for a parent. Christmas Day was always a work day, and the weeks leading up to it were unbelievably busy and stressful. Thinking about those days can make me still feel a little sick.

For the last few years, we've done everything we can to ignore it. We go to church on Christmas Eve (and I do like that); have lunch with family and friends (organised last minute so I don't stress too much about it); and give each child a book, another gift and a few hair ties and chocolates. That's about it.

But the holiday season still looms. And, really, it's not Christmas that I hate but all the gross consumerism around it. It's loud, powerful, insistent. And I'm beginning to realise that ignoring it isn't working; it just makes me depressed. Instead, my family needs some rituals which will help us challenge the dominant ethos.

Going to church is one ritual. Our church is thoughtful about how it approaches Christmas or, indeed, any church season, and has given us the language and opportunity to think and talk about Christmas in ways that aren't absolutely mindless fake joy.

But since we are pretending momentarily that this is a craft blog, I want to tell you about another ritual. I was thinking about Advent calendars, and how I loathe them too - at least, the ones with gifts or chocolate in every pocket. How much junk do my kids need?, I wonder.

But it occurred to me that we could have a different type of Advent calendar. We could make our own and, in each pocket, slip a suggestion for an activity which will help us anticipate Christmas. Some ideas I have are: read a story; write a letter together; choose a gift from the TEAR gift catalogue; set up a Christmas tableau; make cookies (because hey! we have kids and we can't be too earnest); shop for the Asylum Seeker Resource Centre; and so on and so forth.

I had a look online and found a suggestion for a gorgeous Advent calendar here. It's right up my alley: easy peasy, and 100% recycled. The backing is a paper grocery bag, and the pockets (with gussets!) are decorated from our scrap paper tub. I will write the activities on little luggage style tags and slip them in the pockets; and my kids can take one out each day and act on it.

Heading up this post is a photo of my very own creation. I feel like a little kid with a painting on the fridge: inordinately proud, tugging at the adults' legs to come take a look. I particularly like pocket 21, decorated with a square from a road map which includes our street, my sister's street, and our favourite park. And my kids love the idea. They recognise the provenance of most of the pictures: paper which enclosed a gift from a friend; the tag from our favourite muslin baby wrap; a special card; strips from a torn paper lantern. They gently touch the calendar, and beg me to fill the pockets with activities right now. My children are joyfully anticipating Advent, and so, for once, am I. And for that, I am grateful.

PS Click here for some creative ways to consume less at Christmas.