The End, The Beginning

Starting over, over and over and over again

I have been home for six weeks and I can’t help but feel like this is the end of something. Last week I was at the beach with my family, and I loved to sit on our balcony and read. Sometimes I would look up from my book at the expansive sparkling ocean and feel an overwhelming sense of stillness. I was at that same beach around a year ago, and back then I was overcome with possibility, as if every twinkling speck of sun across the water was a possible timeline for me, disappearing with each ripple. I felt connected to the sun. This time, perhaps it’s the moon I can feel the most — still reflecting light, but hovering just above the stretch of water, each wave stretching upwards, the tide low and forgiving.

“The Light Continues”:

Every evening, an hour before
the sun goes down, I walk toward
its light, wanting to be altered. 
Always in quiet, the air still. 
Walking up the straight empty road 
and then back. When the sun 
is gone, the light continues 
high up in the sky for a while. 
When I return, the moon is there. 
Like a changing of the guard. 
I don't expect the light 
to save me, but I do believe
in the ritual. I believe 
I am being born a second time 
in this very plain way. 

I received my dissertation result a few weeks ago and by the end of this week, I will have obtained my certificate of completion for my Bachelor of Arts degree. For the former, nothing changed. My parents did a little cheer, and we all went out to dinner. The next day I woke up, feeling very little difference in my personality or ego, despite my dissertation being something I am very proud of. I felt more altered in the process of writing it — feeling exhausted, going on a walk, and returning to a clear mind. It’s the moments of rest that provide me with the biggest rewards, like taking a deep breath and feeling my lungs expand beyond their reach, just a little. I am trying to rely on those little moments of alteration, rather than the rewarded accomplishments. I’ve finished university. Every milestone from here on out is conditional, up to the cosmos: Will I get married? Will I publish a book? Will I have children? Will I live to 50? 100? If yes, who will be there to celebrate with me? How long will it last? I’ve always considered every milestone in my life as an opportunity to start over, shed my skin, and walk forward, reborn. Every summer in grade school, I sat at my desk the night before the first day and try and formulate how I wanted to change for the upcoming year. But it doesn’t have to be that dramatic. Maybe I can just go for a walk, or cook a nice meal, or clean my room. It’s all within my control.

Miranda July wrote in No One Belongs Here More Than You:

Do you have doubts about life? Are you unsure if it is worth the trouble? Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person’s face as you pass on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. They are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing. Stand up and face the east. Now praise the sky and praise the light within each person under the sky. It’s okay to be unsure. But praise, praise, praise.

by Pierre Boncompain

I’ve kept journals for most of my life, and when I was younger I was always so self-conscious about how I kept them: if I wanted to collage one day or draw or use a pen instead of a pencil, I bought a new one and started over from scratch. I have a lot of half-finished journals. Consistency was always a priority. I am trying to let go of the notion that each new day is a replacement for who I was yesterday. I want evidence that a version of me existed — as they do in my journals, yes, but the mere act of closing the book is an act of leaving it behind. Each new thing I learn, every moment of anger and kindness and creation, is like adding a page in a book that keeps getting longer. I don’t think being born a second time has to mean rebirth. Perhaps my life will just consist of me being born again, over and over, until I hold a million little lives.

Further Reading

“Be Still In Haste” by Wendell Berry

Excerpt from “River Inside A River” by Gregory Orr

Excerpt from "James Baldwin, The Art of Fiction No. 78", An Interview by Jordan Elgrably

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What I Enjoyed This Week

Recent Reads

• Funny You Should Ask by Elissa Sussman. A rom-com depicting a “just-so-happened” kind of relationship that isn’t particularly realistic, but perfectly unrealistic enough to be a good beach read. It was fun. If you’re into Emily Henry or Beth O’Leary, I’d recommend it.

• Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell. Reading about the 16th-century plague is definitely not characteristic of a good beach read, but alas, my copy has sand in it anyway. This was brilliant. It takes one forgotten moment in history — the death of Shakespeare’s son, Hamnet — and turned it into a story of grief, purpose, motherhood, and acceptance. This might not be for everyone, but I usually steer clear of both historical fiction and Shakespeare and I really really liked it.

Other Wonderful Things

• Some things I loved while at the beach last week:

  • Honeycrisp apples

  • Reading on the balcony

  • Doing word searches with my sisters

  • Encanto (my first time watching!)

  • Wheat Thins

  • Bright sunsets

• This song, this song, this song, this song, and this song. Playlist <3

I want to announce this now before it happens: next week will be the 50th Devotions newsletter, and it will be my last for a while. After writing weekly for almost a year, I just need a break. But it won’t be forever: this is a deeply cherished practice of mine and I’m already looking forward to coming back, well-rested, with a fresh mind.

See you next week. Thank you for reading.

<3

Tara