Merci 2022

It is January 2023. 2022 has been and gone, and I am now living in a new city, ready to start my new job in a few days’ time. After three years of living in a beautiful city, filled with victorian architecture, mysteries, unique cafes, and aesthetic spaces, my time in Dunedin has come to an end.

I obtained a Master’s degree during a global pandemic, made some lifelong friends, had the opportunity to work with a team of dedicated academics and researchers, ate some incredible food, explored some beautiful parts of this country, and grew into a proper adult. I shed more tears in Dunedin than I had planned. No one tells you how lonely the mid-20s can be. I love my alone time, as I am as introverted as they come, but the loneliness of being a young adult in this day and age has at times been unbearable. At times I thought I had lost myself, I experienced waves of depression and anxiety, deconstructed and reconstructed my faith journey, learned how to set boundaries, and ultimately learned how to accept and love myself the way God has made me and is still making me. While these past three years have been some of the most tumultuous years of my adult life, I am so grateful and thankful for the opportunities that I had to learn new things, and grow into a better, stronger version of myself.

At the beginning of 2022, I decided that I wanted to be intentional about how I would go about things. I decided to create a vision board for my year, a collection of pictures that most represented the areas in my life I wanted to improve, as well as some new things I wanted to try. I was, and still am, creating safe spaces for myself where I can heal emotionally, spiritually, psychologically, and physically, spaces that capture a Hygge lifestyle, and spaces where I can begin again.

This post covers a few goals from my 2022 Vision Board, and how my intentions for the year came about. While not everything that I wrote down necessarily came to fruition, those things are mostly areas of my life that I will continually improve upon as time goes on. There is no timeline for healing, and there is no time limit on how long replenishing my spirit should take. Everything should be done in its time, and when things are delicate, they should be approached in slow motion. I process slowly, and I grieve slowly. I never rush a grieving process. Whether that is the grief of moving cities, moving on in life, or losing a loved one, grief can take many forms and must be treated with delicate caution.

And so, here are a few thoughts that I have completed over the past few weeks as I head into 2023:

In 2022, I learned how to rest and started to embrace a Hygge lifestyle

In 2020, I experienced severe burnout from completing my postgraduate studies and facing an accumulation of never-ending life struggles. It was exhausting, and I never took the time to care for myself, and I paid the price for it. In 2021, I was still in burnout recovery while learning the ropes of my new job at the University. I was still incredibly tired, and my face was still puffy from an overabundance of cortisol in my system. Eventually, things began to smooth out a little, and as I worked my way through 2022, I noticed that I slowly began to have more energy for things, I was thinking more logically, and I was more in touch with my emotions, and feeling more balanced on the inside.

Perhaps it was thanks to a lot of help from Jesus, and my interest in the Danish Hygge lifestyle that helped me through 2020. Hygge is often described as being the cosiness we feel during the winter time, with the fire crackling, hot chocolate in hand, and being wrapped in a knitted jumper surrounded by fairy lights, candles, and cake. While it is not necessarily limited to those things, the overall feelings that come about while in this space are what important.

“You cannot buy the right atmosphere or a sense of togetherness. You cannot hygge if you are in a hurry or stressed out, and the art of creating intimacy cannot be bought by anything but time, interest and engagement in the people around you.”

– Meik Wiking, The Little Book of Hygge

Going into this year, I decided that regardless of how I felt mentally, I would embrace Hygge and try to enjoy myself, and I succeeded. I blocked out my Saturday mornings specifically for ‘me time,’ to go to either the local farmer’s market to purchase baked goods, or get a croissant or pastry from a nearby cafe. If I had the motivation, I would also stroll down to a florist shop to purchase flowers (the purple flowers pictured below were my flatmate’s, but just looking at how beautiful they were brought me so much joy). I would then bring my morsels back to my flat and make myself a cup of coffee and sit down in the sunshine to eat, look at my beautiful flowers, and just be in the present moment.

In the evenings, my bedtime routine would involve the use of a night-time skincare routine, scented candles, cups of peppermint tea, and a little more journalising, alongside a short Bible study. I even started to read more books again. While I didn’t quite read a book a week, I did try to read at least a dozen throughout the year. It was truly wonderful. Slowing down, resting, and just being in the present moment helped me tremendously.

In 2022, I learned to love being nature again

After several years of studying and working inside, and not making time for myself to exercise regularly and enjoying being outside, I finally made time to get some fresh air in 2022. I also intended that autumn of that year would be a time of enjoying the colours and textures of the autumn leaves and that I would love every moment. And I did.

If the weather was agreeable, and if I felt inclined, I would go for a walk into nature to the botanical gardens, find a park bench amongst the conifers, write in my journal, and talk to Jesus for a time. I was able to worship and pray in the quiet stillness with no distractions, and no one to tell me that I wasn’t doing enough, or that I was doing it wrong. It was a very healing time for me.

While in this space, I also learned that sitting quietly in nature calmed my anxiety a great deal, and I would often come away from my reflection time feeling at peace and in high spirits, ready to carry on into the next thing for my day. In saying this too, I was often awestruck by the beauty and majesty of God’s creation. Taking the time to see the little things, touch the grass, smell the flowers, and collect the leaves. All of this He made for us, and all of this He made just for me when I needed it the most.

In 2022, I learned to fully grieve and let myself dream again

I stopped dreaming after 2020. When I did daydream, it was purely dissociation. I distracted myself with helping others, I kept myself busy at work, and I always had music on when I was alone. I never truly stopped to dream for me.

I used to dream all the time; I dreamed about this and that, I dreamed about who I should be, and I dreamed about what would come in the future. After a rough season in my personal life, I felt dead inside. I lacked insight for myself, I lacked excitement for the future, and I lacked vision. As a forward thinker and futurisitcally-minded person, this was terrifying. I felt intellectually stunted, artistically challenged, and mentally blocked. Lacking vision meant that I lacked purpose.

There were many nights when I would lie in bed in tears thinking that I had lost purpose in my life. I had two degrees and a job that I loved, a small handful of friends who I adored, yet I felt so alone and purposeless. I was ungrounded and unfocused.

Close to the end of 2022, when I was planning my move out of Dunedin, I decided that in the New Year, I would find myself again. And now I am slowly reconciling those moments of grief and sadness, addressing each thought, and turning them into something new. I am starting to dream again, not only for my personal life but also for my career choices.

I am still uncertain about where I should go, or what I am doing at the moment, but I know that 2023 will be a pivotal time for me to reassess my goals and embrace my old dreams once more.

In 2022, I learned to embrace the authentically ‘weird’

“You’re so weird” is a phrase I’ve heard often throughout my life. I’m good at telling whether someone means this as a judgment. I’ve never been in the ‘in’ crowd, and I don’t plan to be. And that’s okay because I’ve learned that ‘weird’ is actually a compliment.

I like strange things. I like old things. I like unusual things. I like intricate thought patterns, and I like to collect small items that people generally overlook as uninteresting or unusual. I hyperfocus on details, and I become healthily obsessive about things that fascinate me.

I love dark humour and I love inserting fun facts into regular conversations, but that at times makes the interaction with the other person awkward. So I pull back, become acutely aware of my facial expressions, soften my eyes and my tone, and restrain myself from excitedly telling the person about a hilarious joke or interesting fact I’d recently learned and desperately wanted to share it with them. I was excited to talk about what I’d discovered but remembered that sometimes, people simply don’t understand the joys of learning new things and don’t care. And that’s okay. Because I learned how to love myself, and I learned how to love the ‘weird,’ because the ‘weird’ is a part of who I am.

I refuse to change for people. I can’t stand fake people. I despise nothing more than when a person tries to be someone that they’re not to try and fit in. I can’t do that anymore, and I refuse to do that. I wish to remain authentic, and I wish to embrace the authentically weird. I am me, and no one can say otherwise. I’ve simply stopped caring. If a person thinks I am strange because of the things and the people that I love, then that’s okay. They can go on their merry way. It is validating to find others who speak your kind of ‘weird,’ and I hope that in 2023 I get to find more of those people.

And there we have it. My 2022 in a nutshell. It was lonely, but it was also increidbly good for me. I hope that 2023 will be a little easier, and I look forward to a fresh new start, a new year, and hopefully a new me. Happy New Year, everyone!

Aelwyn | A Short Story

I wrote this short story as an entry to the 2008 Sunday Star-Times Short Story Writing Competition. While nothing came about with my entry, I subsequently entered it into a local homeschoolers’ competition and received some positive feedback from some of the other entrants. At the time, I was developing the initial ideas for a fantasy-historical fiction novel set in an alternate version of Roman Britain. In a way, this short story acts as a draft opening chapter. I wrote this portion when I was 12 years old, and the rest of the novel currently remains untouched. This short story has undergone some minor revisions over the years.

Aelwyn

Last spring, the Hardians invaded our country, Gilleathain. They came by sea in tall, menacing ships. They overcame cities and besieged fortresses. They burned Bethelstad, our capital city to the ground and raided our towns and villages. Then they came to our city. Every day is worse than the last. Torment, slavery, kidnap, and murder fill my days with terror.

My name is Aelwyn Thenred. I am fifteen summers old and I live with my father, Baldwin, chieftain of our city, Thelford. I was brought up in a wealthy home with my father and my maid, Jocelyn. My mother, Guinevere, died when I was only a small child. I have one sibling, and his name is Evander. I never knew him, but my father once told me that he disappeared when he was around eleven summers old. There is no knowing where he went, but I suspect that he is still alive.

A hand clamped firmly over my mouth. My eyes snapped open, tearing the attacker’s hand off my face. I made a grab for the knife that I kept under my pillow when I sleep, but my opponent gripped tightly at my wrist. Using my other hand, I pulled the dagger out of its sheath and held it up against my aggressor’s throat.

“Be still, or you will die painfully,” I said, trying not to let fear enter my voice.

“Aelwyn!” A voice rasped, “It’s me, your father!”

I pulled the dagger away from harm and set it on the bedside table. My father pulled me out of under the blankets.

“What’s going on ?” I asked. He leaned over and said quietly, “Come with me, quickly.” His words were harsh, but I trusted him. 

He lead me through the hall and out into the kitchen. Jocelyn stood in her nightgown by a covered window, packing food and provisions into a leather bag. 

“Aelwyn, come here,” she said, her light hair billowing down her back. She knelt down and opened a wooden chest at her feet. Passing me a hardened leather cuirass, she explained, “You have a long journey ahead of you. Here, I’ll help you put this on.” Jocelyn pulled the cuirass over my head. I moved my arms out of the way, and she laced up the sides, pulling the leather cords taut through the silver eyelets. She tied the cords into knots and buckled the shoulder straps.

“You fit this well,” she commented. I glanced at myself in the mirror on the wall. The top of the cuirass was embossed with weaving designs that curled into the heads of griffins and dragons. The bottom had a belt riveted on with a buckle for a scabbard. Baldwin handed me my sword, and I fastened it onto the belt. 

Turning to my father I asked, “What’s going on?”

Baldwin dropped a pouch of coins into my bag and said, “I owed the king money. I gave it to him, but he was not satisfied. He demands land and warned me that if I do not fulfill his commands, he will take you away as an alternative.” He paused.

“Unfortunately, the only land I have left to spare is your mother’s burial grounds. I couldn’t bear to give that up.”

I placed my hands on my hips. “But why did you wake me up as such a late hour, you could have woken me in the morning.” I tied my dark brown hair with a hand of leather.

“No,” he said sadly. “They warned me that if I did not pay them by end of day yesterday, then they would take you at dawn with no hesitation.”

I grimaced. Why would they do this to us?  I thought angrily. It’s only land, why couldn’t they leave us alone?

“But you have enough money, could you not pay them more?”

“There was a problem in the village. When you went for lessons at the scriptorium with your tutor Titus, the Hadrians came, as did their captain Edward. I had no coins on me at the time; there was an argument, and one of the butcher’s boys got in the way and was killed.” I wondered why none of this was mentioned at supper, but it was becoming clearer now.

My father finished packing my bag and said, “Come now to the stables.”

Jocelyn bid a quiet farewell to me, and I followed him through the corridor and towards the back door towards the barn. Turning to me as he walked, he said, “Take my horse, Surum, he’s faster than the others.”

When we reached the stables, he unlocked the door and went in. Lighting the oil lamps, Baldwin reached for a saddle and bridle from the hooks on the wall. I opened the gate to Surum’s stall and entered. The large, dappled grey war-horse snorted with fright at my sudden intrusion, but soon calmed when he recognized my scent. I clipped his lead rope onto his halter and lead him out. I watched as my father swiftly saddled his prized horse and fastened the bridle. He tied my bag to the back of the cantle and beckoned me the mount. I grasped the saddle horn and swung my leg over. 

Baldwin reached for my hand. “Go to northbound to Hengest,” he said breathlessly. “Find my sister, Aethelflaed and tell her that I sent you. Explain everything to her and tell her I probably won’t be seeing her for a while; she’ll understand. The Hadrians will certainly be exasperated when they hear you’ve escaped, but I have no choice.”

He reached into his coat pocked and brought out an object wrapped in dark blue linen. Passing the object up to me, he said, “Keep this safe and do not lose it. Wear in battle if you need to.” I unwrapped the crumpled fabric, and there, sitting in my hands, was my father’s gold torc. I attempted to return it to him but he refused.

“Dawn is coming, and you must depart in haste. There is no time for sentiments.” I gently placed the torc around my neck. It was incredibly heavy, and the coldness of the gold made me shiver.

I looked to the east. The sky had the first signs of pink streaks of colour spreading across it. Morning birdsong was beginning to echo throughout the lonesome valley, and the feel of cold morning air was drifting about us in small breezes. 

Surum lifted his head and nickered. He pricked his ears and tugged at the reins. Pawing the ground, he swung his head around so wildly that I almost slid out of the saddle.

The sound of thunderous hoof beats erupted suddenly from the around the side of the house. Baldwin let go of my hand.

“Go, go now!”

I tried to protest and begged him to come with me. Balwin slapped Surum’s rump, and the horse whinnied and reared in fright, before jolting forward and setting off in a gallop. 

***

I glanced quickly behind me. Four Hadrians, dressed in battle costume and mounted on dark chargers, appeared out of nowhere. Two of the Hadrians bore halberds and shields while the others were armed with swords. I glanced again and realised with utter horror that one of the soldiers had a crossbow in his hands. He loaded the first bolt.

Faster, and faster, Surum leaped for his life. Faster, and faster, the Hadrians gained distance between us. Surum galloped up a steady incline and began to slow. I heard a click, turning around, I saw that the first bolt had planted itself neatly into a tuft of grass, mere metres from my steed’s hooves. We reached the top; turning towards a nearby road away from the village, we followed it until we came to a forest. It was dark and humid, and the trees all around spread out like pillars in a temple. The path grew narrower, yet Surum did not slow down. Beads of sweat began to form on his neck, but he didn’t care. We rounded a sharp corner. Another click. I ducked as the bolt flew over my head. The trees began to thin out and the first rays of the day began to shine through the branches. The world continued to whizz past my head as Surum panted his way through the woods.

A sudden flicker of movement in the trees caught my attention. The twang of a bowstring sounded through the forest. I heard one of the Hadrians behind me cry out in pain. Looking around, I saw a dark, hooded figure. He wore a long, black cloak, and swiftly nocked a second arrow from the quiver slung across his back. He aimed and let fly. Another Hadrian fell from his horse with a howl of pain.

Confused, I halted Surum and he skidded across the wet path. Dismounting, I drew my sword. The two remaining Hadrians came to a halt. One pointed his halberd towards me and boomed, “You. Come with us!” He didn’t seem bothered by the hooded stranger.

I took a step back. The soldier dismounted and made a grab for my arm. The man in the cloak flew between us and pulled a dagger toward the soldier and snarled, “If you take one step closer, I will end you.”

The Hadrian blanched and backed off. “Very well then,” he said, glaring at me and remounting his horse. “But the girl comes with us, captain’s orders.”

The man in the cloak threw back his hood. He had raven hair and appeared several years older than me. “She won’t.” 

I’d had enough and cut in. “What’s become of my father?”

The Hadrian stared at me with unblinking eyes. “He’s dead,” he said simply.

Drawing his sword, he said again, “She comes with us.”

Without hesitation, the man in black flung his dagger towards the Hadrian and he crumpled to the ground. His horse nervously side-stepped. The stranger turned to the last remaining soldier and ended him in the same manner. The soldier screamed in agony as he fell, blood gushing down his front.

I turned to the man to express my thanks, but he was gone. I strode over to Surum and mounted, thoughts churning in my mind.

***

Following that ordeal, I considered returning home. On the other hand, the Hadrian had informed me of my father’s death. I couldn’t take the idea that Baldwin was gone. What about Jocelyn? Nervously, I swung Surum back around and headed for home.

At the top of the rise overlooking my father’s estate, I gazed across the small valley. It didn’t look much different than usual, but the stillness of the atmosphere made me think again. I steadied Surum to a walk and he picked his way down the mud path towards the house.

Upon arrival, I went straight to the stables. The door was still open, and the smell of horse drifted throughout the small space. It was empty, apart from my horse, Leetu, who was still in her stall, munching on a fresh net of hay.

Where did that come from? I wondered to myself.

I went back outside and something caught my eye. Kneeling down, I noticed a patch of red had been splashed onto the ground. It was blood. The edge of the pool had been smeared into a line that followed around the corner of the stables. Tethering Surum to a post, I followed the line towards a patch of heather, where behind it, lay my mother’s burial site. I walked silently towards it through the lush, green grass, unaware that I was following another pair of tracks heading in the same direction. I heard a noise, and looked up to see a peregrine falcon circling above me. It took a dive with a small flutter of wings and landed behind the bushes. I waded through the thick grass until I came to a stone circle beneath the poplar tress. I stopped. In the middle was the stranger in black. 

“What are you doing here?” I watched as he heaved a pile of dirt onto a mound of soil. I looked around to see two other mounds roughly the same size. 

“You’re not supposed to be here.” The man looked up. “I’m burying your father.” 

The falcon gripped its claws into the man’s shoulder and took off. He gave me a slight look of sympathy and hammered a sign into the head of the mound. “

“Thanks for feeding Leetu.” He gave no reply. I peered at the wooden sign and saw that the man had carved Balwin’s and Jocelyn’s names into the wood with his knife.

“How did you know their names?” I asked the man. He shrugged and approached his tethered horse. 

“There’s not much point in you staying here,” he said. “The Hadrians will find out what I’ve done soon enough and come looking for you.” Mounting, he added, “And by the way, you shouldn’t be here on your own.”

“I can look after myself!”

“Can you?” He demanded, looking sadly towards the graves. “What will you do? There is nothing left for you here. Your father told you to go to Hengest, so why are you wasting your time back here?”

I opened my mouth in protest. How did this man know who I was, and what my father had told me?

“He did not say such things,” I lied. The nameless stranger gave me a long look.

“Then why did you attempt to go north?”

I was too tired to argue. The man sighed. “I know you are distraught about what has happened. I can promise you safe passage to Hengest, but from there I will have to leave you.”

I paused for a moment. “No,” I said finally. “I don’t even know your name. You don’t even know me!”

“My name is Cynewulf. I was an old acquaintance of your father’s.” I was still unconvinced, but he continued, “I know how to get you to Hengest, and there are Hadrian patrols everywhere, but we’ll have to stay off the main roads and avoid the trade routes.”

“Fine,” I said with exasperation. But I have a few things to finish first.”

***

I walked back towards the house, irritated. 

I entered my room. The window was still covered, and the candle in the sconce that my father had placed on my shelf earlier had burned out. I hurried over to a cupboard. Scanning the shelves, I found my quiver and hunting bow. Baldwin had them made for me by my Uncle Douglas as a gift during Yule season. I lifted it off the dusty shelf. The quiver had been carved from polished cedar and contained at least twenty arrows fletched with goose feathers. The bow was shaped from a yew branch and embellished with a red leather handgrip. I rarely used it, but this time it might come in handy. I slung it over my shoulder, and as I turned to leave, I retrieved my wooden jewelry box and tucked it into my coat pocket for safe keeping. 

Outside, Cynewulf had tied bags and rolled up blankets onto Leetu’s saddle. The young horse skittered about restlessly.

“Ah, there you are,” said Cynewulf. “We should get going, it’s already afternoon.” I grunted a short reply and mounted Surum. 

“How far to Hengest?” I queried.

“About two days on the trade route, but we should get there by tomorrow if we make haste over Darneth Pass.”

He stared at me again and eyed my golden torc. I looked away and said quietly, “Just because you told me your name, doesn’t mean that I trust you.”

Cynewulf mounted, “Let’s get going; we don’t have much time. Or do you want me to leave you here with no protection?”

“Cynewulf!” 

“It’s Ev-” Cynewulf shut his mouth and attempted to cough.

“What did you say?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said dismissively.

“Yes it does, what did you say? I’m interested.”

Cynewulf said nothing and dug his legs into his horse’s sides, setting off into a brisk trot towards the road to Hengest. 

I followed, pondering. Evander? 

Fika and Slowing Down

This morning – Sunday, 26 June 2022 – I woke up at 11am.

I’d initially awoken much earlier, thinking that if I stayed awake, I could accomplish more in my day. It was going to be sunny outside and I was eager to run some errands and get things done. Three hours later, I woke up in a mess, thinking I’d wasted a perfectly good day, only to fall back into my duvet and realise that I still had more than enough time in my day to do all the things I wanted, and more.

I had to remind myself that slowing down and enjoying myself in the present moment was far more important than ticking boxes and crunching the numbers on my ever-growing list of life admin tasks. So much to do, so little time.

So I made myself a coffee, buttered my toast, and stayed in my pajamas. I lost today’s Wordle, failed miserably at Heardle, and won Framed. I checked my emails, social media, and pinned a few pictures onto my Pinterest boards.

I’m grateful that my Pinterest algorithm has finally cottoned onto my preferred themes, and one of those is Fika. Fika is a Swedish word meaning “to have coffee,” and is often accompanied by pastries or something delicious to eat, as well as taking it a bit slower with some good company. It’s closely related to the Danish-Norwegian lifestyle concept of Hygge, and I’ve managed to pin quite a lot of those thematic images onto my mood boards to help arrange my thoughts and get some inspiration.

I have too much on the go at the moment, and I’m currently in the middle of writing a number of draft posts, one of which covers my story about leaving a cult in January 2017. As that is a rather long, arduous project that requires more time and a rather deep thinking process, in the meantime I wish to bless you with some Fika to help you relax, slow down, and take one step at a time:

Midshipman Tavington | A Short Story

I wrote this short story when I was 15 years old. At the time of writing, I was deeply invested in British naval history during the Napoleonic Wars era. This story has not been edited or reviewed, so please excuse any grammatical errors that may be present.

Midshipman Tavington

HMS Caroline, English Channel

27 January 1789

Midshipman James Tavington

The first streaks of dawn were beginning to exhibit a brilliant pageantry of wisps of orange and clouds as the half-six bell chimed four mournful tolls. Sounds of rifled activity could be heard from the midshipman’s berth. Footsteps of the crewmen resounded up on deck as they scurried towards their stations.

Last night, the H.M.S. Caroline, ship of the line, was attacked unexpectedly by a Spanish frigate. It had prowled behind the English ship like a lion stalking its prey. We lost her in the fog, only to be clawed at from behind. I can still hear the cries from the seamen as they were hit. And then suddenly to our upmost confusion, she vanished, not to be seen again that night. It was wartime, but why strike a channel creeper? The captain, John Milburn, was hit by a splinter in the midst of the chaos.

I hurriedly buttoned my midshipman’s coat and placed my hat firmly on my head. I was somewhat lethargic as I made my way up to the quarterdeck. A sharp breeze nudged the canvas sails, sending them tugging against the masts. A shrill peep lanced the sailor’s laborious noises as the Bos’uns and their mates blew their whistles. Second-lieutenant Thomas Willbury stood next to his acting-lieutenant Charlie Higgons, hands clasped behind their backs, keeping the morning watch. Willbury turned around, the tails of his coat whipping in the wind, revealing the white undersides of the flaps.

Second-Lieutenant Thomas Willbury

Tavington tapped the brim of his hat. “Reporting for duties, sir.”

Tavington was short and thin with long raven hair and a pair of incredibly luminous green eyes. His crooked uniform clung to him like a sack, and his low top hat made his head seem smaller than usual. He strode with such an elegant, feminine grace, that it was hard to imagine him as a sophisticated, mature officer during the days of his examination for lieutenant. Tavington spoke with a heavy Irish accent, though sometimes when he tripped up on his words, it turned into a cockney drawl. It was a wonder he actually mixed with the other midshipmen, but he was quick to learn, and within a couple of weeks of joining, became familiar with his duties.

I had had my suspicions about him ever since he had come aboard the Caroline, but when first lieutenant Haydn – now acting captain – discussed with me this morning the reasons why, everything seemed to make perfect sense.

“Yes,” I said, collapsing the spyglass in my hand. “Acting captain wants you in his cabin immediately.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Just as he turned to leave, I leaned down and whispered something in his ear. “I know your secret.”

Tavington froze for a second, and then swivelled around on his heel to face me, flashing me a sharp look. Trying to avoid displaying a shocked expression, he muttered quietly, “I don’t have any secrets.” And before forgetting his conduct in front of his senior officer, he added, “Sir.” Then he turned and clambered down the hatchway, evading a splash of sea spray that followed him.

Midshipman James Tavington

I disappeared below deck as fast as I dared. I was sweating.

What Willbury had said made me uneasy. He didn’t know, surely! I could imagine finding myself bound against gratings – worse, swinging off the yardarm with a thick, prickly rope encircling my neck. I shivered.

I came to the captain’s cabin and rapped against the wood. “Come,” came the reply. I opened the door. First lieutenant Gerald Haydn was sitting at a desk, reading a crumpled paper. He was wearing a felt coat dyed a deep midnight blue and trimmed with white piping and gleaming buttons which I dare say looked rather dashing. Around him laying on the desk were piles of maps and letters, a spyglass, and his velvet chapeau with its pleated leather rosette attached to the side. “Mr. Tavington.” He reminded me of a humourless boarding school principal.

I removed my hat. “Mr. Willbury’s compliments, sir.”

The acting captain looked up and ran his eyes over my crooked uniform. “Not quite the appearance I was anticipating. I almost half expected you to turn up in a dress.”

“Sir?” I queried. He gave me a dubious look, then scanned the page he was holding. “Considering the circumstances with the captain being indisposed and such, my duties are to read the entire contents of his desk.” he held up the letter. The ink was smudged and the words were scribbled as if the author was in an awful rush.

“I found a letter from a lawyer in Portsmouth – it was dated from last year, so obviously the captain hadn’t thought much about it. “He wrote that his daughter sailed with his brother to London for two weeks.” He gave me a long, unnatural stare. “But they haven’t returned.” The atmosphere of the cabin switched from friendly to intense. The acting captain drew a long, steady breath. “You came aboard last year on October 23rd?”

“Yes, sir.” I replied.

“And your full name is James Trevor Tavington?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“I understand from your ship log that you have had trouble in the past, with your father. Please, tell me about him.”

So you’ve been through my sea chest, have you?! Luckily, the only thing I wrote about my past was the trouble I had with my father, not revealing anything else. “Very well.” The first lieutenant rubbed his pointed chin. “After my mother died of scarlet fever, he sent me off to the Navy, not to see me again, sir.”

“Why?” Gerald Haydn seemed a little perplexed.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Anything else, Mr. Tavington?”

“A small number of things, sir.”

“Like what?”

“Ahmm…” I thought for a minute. There was a long silence. “It does seem a very gloomy day, doesn’t it – with the captain dead and all.” Gerald arched his eyebrow. He had a funny little nose. It was small and pinchy with a fiery red tinge. “Oh, a button is missing from my uniform, do excuse me while I get another from the Bo’sun.”

“If you please, Mr. Tavington, stop prevaricating.” Gerald frowned at me.

I should really pull myself together.

“One more thing.” I was expecting to hear the same question. He leaned forward so my eyes were level with his bloodshot black-eyed peas, and said the words, almost making me want to snatch them out of the air and hide them away. How did he know? Looking back on it now seems frivolous, really.

“Is your real name Mary Coleridge?”

I tittered lightly to myself. I wanted to make my mark on history – to be the first female officer in the British Royal Navy. And I did.

This Is Where Your Life Is

An old draft from January 2018.

2017 had its losses. I left my hometown. I had to say goodbye to some precious humans. A friend passed away. I had to farewell my childhood home. I moved to one end of the country, while my parents moved to the other. The church that I had known as a teenager changed. That place was my safety net if things became dubious. And that place as I know it is now gone.

A week ago I celebrated my first anniversary of moving to Christchurch. Sunday, 15th January 2017, was a day that I both loved and hated. And you know what? It has to be one of the best decisions that I have ever made. I left my childhood home, my parents, a small handful of close and very special friends, and a church family for a future that would be terrifying, exhilarating, and potentially quite risky. I could feel the judgement when I left. When you spend a long amount of time in a small town, people get to know you. You get cemented into one place. You only leave if you get told to, and you only ever dare venture outwards if you promise to come back. And I couldn’t make that promise. Because Jesus was calling, and I was not about to let myself become tied down in order to stay quiet in a comfortable place. I’m not called to just sit in a pew.

As it turns out, moving cities to study means that you end up learning more in your day-to-day life than you do in the classroom. You start to dream. You begin to form your own opinion. You learn how to actually think for yourself. You learn what it truly means to leave home and to let go of all of the things that were detrimental and unsound. You learn that Christ is the centre and that He is the end goal of all things. You learn that you love politics. You learn that it was okay to do something a little scary. You also learn that to follow the voice of the Lord costs. It costs friendships and it costs linkages and it costs livelihoods.

In light of the year that had just passed, I ended 2017 with a very quiet bang. This consisted of devouring a pack of Tim Tams, chocolate kisses (purposefully purchased because, instead of getting a kiss from a stranger on New Years’ Eve, why not have an entire bag of chocolate ones to yourself? Leisha Logic.), and watching After the Dark with my friend Tessa. Far off in the distance, I could hear the low rumble of fireworks at Hagley Park as the clock struck 12:00am and hailed in the New Year. Hello, 2018. I Snapchatted my friends. Sent a few messages on Facebook. Chucked a few gifs into some group chats. Went to bed feeling a little sleepy, and entirely non-concerned of the fact that I was now one year older. I chose not to create a list of New Years’ Resolutions. I felt that the path I was now on was so full of surprises that there was no longer any room for me in which to position myself for the predictable.

I keep being reminded of a film called Brooklyn. 

What does it really mean to leave home? What does our future look like, and what does home even mean?

What does it mean to leave everything that you know in search of a new life in a place that is not familiar to you?

“You’ll feel so homesick that you’ll want to die, and there’s nothing you can do about it apart from enduring it. But you will, and it won’t kill you. And one day the sun will come out – you might not even notice straight away, it’ll be that faint. And then you’ll catch yourself thinking about something or someone who has no connection with the past. Someone who’s only yours. And you’ll realize that this is where your life is” (Eilis, Brooklyn: 2016).

It feels like I have been here since forever. I love Nelson very much. But I outgrew it. I was there for a season, and now that season is over.

Millennial Brunching: A Taste of Dunedin’s Cafe Scene | Eggs Benedict Edition

Eggs Benedict is one of those classic items on a café brunch menu that I, at the best of times, simply cannot resist. A crunchy piece of toast, covered in a layer of crispy bacon, two perfectly cooked eggs, and topped with a deliciously creamy hollandaise is enough to make me feel extraordinarily happy.

I first became mildly obsessed with the possibility of perfecting my own hollandaise sauce after watching The Hundred-Foot Journey during our first Level 4 Lockdown. It was here that I was struck with great inspiration, and decided that one day, I would attempt to create each of the 5 French Mother Sauces – Béchamel, Velouté, Espagnole, Tomato, and of course Hollandaise. 

Beginning with the latter, I decided one Saturday morning that I would attempt such a venture. After dreaming the night before that I would succeed on my first attempt to create a perfect hollandaise, I confidently swept into the kitchen the next morning, balloon whisk in hand, and ready to take on the world.

I can confirm that I did not succeed that day. My egg yolks and butter failed to emulsify, and as I attempted to whisk together the buttery goodness with a dash of white wine vinegar, it began to curdle. Mildly panicked, I thought that I could perhaps give myself a ‘good save’ by pouring the monstrosity into a Nutri-bullet to allow for more stable mixing power. But it was too late. The hollandaise was ruined. I’d used half a block of butter and more eggs than I dare count. My dream from the night before was just a figment of my imagination, and thus, I was saddened for the rest of the day. Not to mention, my balloon whisk has since dramatically retired after I broke it trying to make my birthday cake. 

But all was not lost! I was reminded that Dunedin is famous for its wonderfully niche eateries, in particular its unique café scene. And what commonality do these cafes share, you might ask? Eggs benedict, of course. And thus, I set out to discover which Dunedin café hails the best hollandaise-friendly dish, without enduring the perils of my own failed attempt at some basic kitchen chemistry. While the sample size for my research project is much smaller than I had initially hoped, my journey to discovering Dunedin’s best eggs benedict provided me with some good insights into what one might expect when indulging in a millennial brunch on a fine weekend. 

Like most great qualitative research, my collection of data needed to be ranked and critiqued, and each item had to meet a set of criteria, and in this case, a Criteria of Goodness.

My Criteria of Goodness included the following: 

• Toast: Each eggs benedict dish needed to be served one some kind of breaded base. An English muffin is a classic move, however the most preferred base would need to include 1 to 2 slices of toasted sourdough or ciabatta. 

• Bacon: Another requirement is that the eggs be accompanied with some bacon on top of said toasted bread, preferably crispy, and not too much as to completely smother the toast beneath it.  

• Spinach: The presence of spinach or any accompanying greens is entirely optional and does not negate the criteria of the overall dish, unless it becomes invasive to the egg. Extra items may also be present, however, they cannot diminish the integrity of the overall idea of an eggs benedict – they may be present, but they cannot take place of the dishes’ sole character. 

• Eggs: There must be two eggs, no more and no less. Overall, the eggs must be poached to perfection: the yolks must be runny, and the whites must be solid and rounded in shape, and they must be patted dry before serving (soggy eggs make for a soggy bread base, which equates to a soggy mood). If cooked with a dash of white vinegar, it must be done in extreme moderation so as to not offset the taste of the acidic presence of vinegar or lemon juice in the hollandaise. This is a poached egg, not a British chip shop. 

• Hollandaise: Furthermore, the hollandaise would need to be not too much nor too little in regard to its quantity. Generally, it must be yellow and classically smooth – and shades may vary according to the eggs used, and I would argue that the golden yolks of free-range eggs are best. Hollandaise should include a slight acidic undercurrent, however, as mentioned above, the acidity cannot be too overpowering, just enough to be appreciated. 

• Garnishes: Garnishes may also be included, but they must not interfere with the flavour of the hollandaise, nor overpower too greatly the gently poached eggs underneath. A general rule of thumb for a pleasing garnish is that its colour should contrast with the hollandaise. For example, the use of small pea-shoots or other fine greenery is ideal. 

• Plating: Overall presentation and plating must appeal to the senses and exhibit some form of simplicity without appearing too dramatic. Again, less is more, but there are extra points for nailing it. 

Overall, the eggs benedict must be considered ‘perfectly adequate’ in order to receive a ranking higher than 6. 

The winner takes it all: The Perc is a winner every time.

The Perc – #1 | Stuart Street, Dunedin

Classically good, and meets all criteria to the best of its ability. Ciabatta toast, bacon, eggs, and hollandaise are all outstandingly perfect. Presentation is simple but effective and includes a pea-shoot garnish to add a small dash of colour. 

Overall ranking: 10/10 – highly recommended, and remains a strong contender for first place throughout this study. 

The Good Oil – #2 | George Street, Dunedin

In basic terms, this eggs benedict met most of the criteria to the best of its ability. 2 eggs, a good proportion of hollandaise, a decent amount of well-cooked bacon, on top of two slices of an English muffin. My only criticism is that the toasted base was a little small and struggled to hold all of the items, especially the more generous serving of bacon, but overall I was very contented with what I ordered.

Overall ranking: 8/10 – adequate and delicious, as to be expected. 

Vogel Street Kitchen – #3 | Vogel Street, Dunedin

Not as memorable as one might have hoped – considering Vogel St’s reputation for excellent millennial brunching – however, in basic terms it covered each criteria perfectly well. 

Overall ranking: 7/10 

Ironic – #4 | Anzac Avenue, Dunedin

Adequate – not quite at the level of Perc-goodness, but very reasonable for what it’s worth. 

Overall ranking: 7/10 – good and satisfied. 

Morning Magpie – #5 | Stuart Street, Dunedin

The hollandaise is reasonable and the eggs were well-done, as to be expected. The base, however, was not typically classical, as it was a square of turmeric-seeded loaf toast. The eggs got a little lost in a mountain of arugula, but overall it was a pleasant eating experience. 

Overall ranking: 6/10 – a satisfactory customer experience. 

Buster Greens – #6 | George Street, Dunedin

Buster Greens has a fantastic menu, and for good reason. However, their take on an eggs benedict was not overly suitable in meeting my set criteria. The dish included only 1 egg, and the amount of hollandaise was considerably lacking in terms of the egg-to-sauce ratio. It accompanied a piece of Southern fried chicken amongst other elements (including salad greens and pickle slices), which, while delicious, was a little too artistically removed from the classic eggs benedict. Furthermore, I had initially ordered the pork belly eggs benedict to satisfy my curiosity, which was apparently unavailable that day due to shortages. 

Overall ranking: 4.5/10 – tasty, but not consistent with the criteria of this project.

La Vie Est Belle | Goodbye, 22…

Being 22 was fantastic.

It was a tough year, but also a brilliant one. I cried more than I did last year.

If I wrote a letter to my 21-year-old self about what was going to happen when I was 22, then I would have made a rather unpleasant squawking noise, pulled my best adorkable grumpy face, and created a Tinder profile. On the other hand, I am pleased to say that I survived it. Because the pockets of positivity placed strategically throughout my year made it worth it. Amongst all the things that happened, I can confidently quote Dobby (1998), who stated that it is “such a beautiful place to be with friends.” The friendships that I made and solidified are what made everything work out in the end. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve the amazing friends that I have, but they are what made my 22nd year the most amazeballs trip through life that I’ve had the privilege to venture thus far.

So here is a list of 22 things – not in order of importance – that I learned and discovered during my 22nd year of acing (and failing) at being human.

1. You’re going to begin learning how to love yourself, and it’s going to start with your hair. 
2. You’re not going to drink alcohol anymore. It just happened, no clue why! It’s not a huge or necessary part of my life and I don’t miss it…cider is nice occasionally, I suppose. UPDATE from future me: It’s okay to drink alcohol. As of 2022, I love the occasional gin cocktail or glass of wine, a small beer, and I am now known for my deliciously spiced mulled wine.
3. You’re going to stop believing in modern dating and look to Jesus as the ultimate matchmaker. It’s not that I don’t believe in dating at all, in fact, I think it’s a wonderful thing. But He knows what’s best. If it’s in His hands, I think I can wait. He got dis!
4. You’re going to learn how to take a compliment. You’re going to stop making excuses for things, and you’re going to make yourself accept a compliment.
5. You’re going to paint your first proper landscape, and you’re not going to constantly point out everything that you hate about it, but you are going to genuinely like it. 
6. You’re finally going to admit to yourself that you love clothes. 
7. You’re going to ditch the heels because you want to save your arches, but you still keep a box of pointy pumps under your bed. 
8. On that note, you will finally admit to yourself that you also really love shoes. 
9. You’re unashamedly going to publicly admit that you’re a royalist and that your obsession with Kate Middleton isn’t going to disappear any time soon. 
10. You will decide that you weren’t such an avocado fan after all. From a scale of one to Richard Nixon, I think I’d rather go for Watergate. Also, I want to own a house one day.
11. You’re going to use the “I’m going to be Prime Minister one day” statement as a threat to jokingly freak people out. 
12. You’re going to get really good at folding paper cranes. 
13. You’re going to get really good at writing highly detailed to-do lists and not do a single thing that you’ve written down. 
14. You’re going to become a master procrastinator and turn into a crazy productive housewife/ cleaning lady right on exam leave week, every. single. time. I should have been a professional organizer.
15. You actually genuinely love Jacinda Ardern. No government is perfect or will ever fully line up with my morals, but I deeply admire her eloquence and professionalism.
16. You’re going to realise that it’s okay to get a grade below the A-line. Literally no one cares on graduation day.
17. You’re going to realise that you are actually intelligent. Long story.
18. You’re going to learn what it really means to leave home. Things happen, and it always works out in the end.
19. You will still be a loquacious soul, but you will realise that you’re actually not as extroverted as you thought you were. Some days the mall just has too many people and I want to go home and have a nap like the grandma that I am.
20. You will learn how to understand yourself and how God created you through StrengthsFinder. Good stuff!
21. You still won’t know what the job-title will be at the end of your degree. But that’s okay!
22. You will start to dream again. Considering a Master of Peace and Conflict Studies (MPCS) and telling my mountain who I am is actually a thing.

“Don’t only practice your art, but force your way into its secrets, for it and knowledge can raise men to the divine.”

― Ludwig van Beethoven

#BreakTheSilence

In an article published online by the New Zealand Herald on 4 July 2017, entitled “What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted: The Untold Story of Teen Suicide in the North,” I read of the harrowing, silent crises that ordinary New Zealanders face every day.

Please take the time to read the article in the link below (PLEASE NOTE: Trigger warning for some graphic content).

What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted | New Zealand Herald

I have had too many precious friends, family members and acquaintances who have faced similar situations. This has affected myself, my church and my community so deeply that we never have never talked about it because the truth is too terrible.

People often ask me why I left my small, beautiful hometown of Nelson to pursue tertiary study in Christchurch. I hear voices all around me telling me that my degree will be worth nothing in the end, that I will only succeed if I have a specific, well-paid job title in mind, and that I won’t be able to change the world around me.

When I tell others that I plan to change my Bachelor of Arts in Media and Communication to a double major with Political Science, people get nervous.

“Oh dear, don’t get too Political!” “Can’t you do something, you know, a bit less…political?” “Can you tell Council that I want my rates lowered?” “You could be a politician and makes loads of money!”

But…if I had it my own way, then I would have gone to drama school. Or film school. Or art school, at a small polytechnic where it was safe for me to hide. But this isn’t about me. This is about people. I don’t want to be a politician and I don’t want to make loads of money for myself. This is about taking responsibility and stewardship, and to speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves.

I think of those who have gone before, such as the likes of  William Wilberforce, who dedicated his life to abolishing the slave trade within the British Empire. During Wilberforce’s time, to suggest that the African slaves – who had been taken from their homeland and treated and sold as objects – were people and subject to equal rights, was controversial and heavily frowned upon. Regardless of the expectations and opinions from his political counterparts, Wilberforce remained steadfast and succeeded. In 1833, three days before his death, the second reading of the Emancipation Act was passed by Parliament, and a month later, the abolition of the slave trade was put into effect.

“From every consideration I shall deal frankly with the House, by declaring, that no act of policy whatever will make me swerve from my duty and oblige me to abandon a measure which I think will be an honour to humanity…Having heard all of this, you may choose to look the other way but you can never again say that you did not know.” – William Wilberforce, speaking to the British House of Commons on 12 May 1789.

So what has William Wilberforce got anything to do with the current suicide rates amongst young people in New Zealand? From my perspective, everything.

Why did the Government cut mental health funding in Canterbury, only 5 years after the Christchurch earthquakes of February 2011? Why is there such little emphasis on suicide prevention and little to almost no advocacy from bureaucrats and those within Governance? Why do we tend to treat those with mental health issues as outcasts? Why have we turned a blind eye to the suicide epidemic, and act with complete shock and utter surprise when we’re given the annual statistics from the Ministry of Health? Why do we rarely talk about it, when the most important thing IS to talk about it?

Everyone else is running around pointing fingers at millennials and their avocado toast, telling them that they will never be able to afford their own homes. Everyone else is running around telling you that your degree is worthless and won’t get you a decent job. Everyone else is running around, completely oblivious to the fact that the statistics of teenage suicide in this country is still rising.

But what can you do? You can talk about it. You can start the discussion. You can break the silence. Be like William Wilberforce and take action for those who have no other hope.

He aha te mea nui? He tangata, he tangata, he tangata.

What is the most important thing? It is people, it is people, it is people.

#BreakTheSilence

It’s Been A While…

Well, hello friend.

It’s been a while since I’ve written to you. You must forgive me when I say I have been a little occupied recently.

Since April, I have found myself working hard as an administrator in the CEO’s office for local government. When I am not constantly printing things and running up and down stairwells and running after Executive Assistants, I am studying. When I am not studying I am illustrating a children’s book. When I am not illustrating a children’s book, I am drawing portraits and writing things (anything and everything under the sun basically, short stories, rants, ideas for youtube videos, a script that I gave up on ages ago and trying to pick it up again, a book that I gave up on ages ago and also trying to pick up again). When I am not doing either of the latter, I am at church. When I am not at church, I am eating food, and when I am not eating food I am sleeping, and so on. I think you get the idea.

So basically, I wanted to write something for you that made sense. And as usual, this blog post is making absolutely NO SENSE WHATSOEVER! Just wanted to make sure that you knew that I knew that you knew that I’m still here and that I still care about you. I’m writing this because I miss you, and I just wanted you to know that I still care about you and I want you to know what I’m up to these days. So what you see is what you get.

So far this year, I’ve been…

• A retail assistant
• unemployed
• A commissioning portrait artist
• A student (and still am)
• A YouTuber (a bad one at that)
• A blogger (ta-da!)
• An administrator for the Governance department (yeah man, I’m a winner!) of a local Council (I already said that, but I just wanted to rub it in a little bit)
• A children’s book illustrator (Yoiks, nervous!)
• A scriptwriter (Pah, hardly! getting there, getting there)

And I haven’t felt much like an “aspiring filmmaker.” I really want to pick up the guitar again. I want to sing better (yes, I do sing…sometimes), and I want to dance.

I’ve started to write stuff on my mirror with a whiteboard pen: “I’m a winner!”, or “Watch me run!”, or something like that. It’s great stuff, makes me feel awesome. There’s something really wonderful about speaking positivity over yourself and watching it take effect.

So, a bit of a heads up. When I have completed the children’s book and finished some more portraits, I’m going to start a series of impressionist paintings in oils. The theme will be worship, in the form of portraiture that corresponds with the Song of Solomon, the book of Ruth, Esther, and elements from Mary Magdalene’s story. The idea is that it will explore different facets of the “risk of intimacy”, such as closeness, abandonment, and dance. The paintings will be done in the style of Claude Monet, Vincent Van Gogh and Renoir. There is something so beautiful about using erratic movement to gild the stillness of a moment, to bring it to life and to create atmosphere. So that should be fun. And interesting. Interesting because I can’t paint.

Ok, I have to go now.

The Road Less Travelled

An old piece of writing my homeschool days.

“Map out your future – but do it in pencil. The road ahead is as long as you make it. Make it worth the trip.” So said by the country rock star Jon Bon Jovi, this statement is true. Everyone’s life is an extensive, heavily-detailed road map. We each have one of our own: unique, colourful, and designed specifically to show us the way on and to get excited about our futures.

In the world of cartography, there are several formats as to the mapping of a location and its route. It could come in the form of a globe, an atlas, a flat survey, or an electronic screen. One of the most common types of maps is the small, single-page map. This is usually slipped into somebody’s glove box and is used to show the overview of a region’s major routes and features. It is simple, straightforward, and easy to follow. Sometimes, in a particular season, a person’s life is uncomplicated and elementary, much like the single-page, easy-to-read road map. Another format of a route plan is a folded map. This one offers greater detail than the previous and covers a larger area. Accompanying that is the electronic geographic chart that people often use on their everyday smartphones, iPhones, and iPads, for the fast-paced business workers. They can also be suited to specific features by the user. These different formats of viewing and studying maps could also attribute to the way that we see ourselves.

The three main types of road maps are highway, street, and road atlases. The first gives an overview of major routes within medium or large regions, and they can range between a few dozen to a few thousand miles or kilometres. Close to this is the street map which is often used to help navigate through towns and cities and covers only a few miles or kilometres at the most. The latter of the three is the road atlas. This is usually bound into a book because of its extensive scale and is a collection of road maps ranging from a city to an entire continent. It can also include states or provinces and is best suited for the long-haul traveller. These could all metaphorically speak for the way in which we view our lives and futures, depending on the type of lifestyles we have or the situations that we get ourselves into.

Each of us exists inside our own, living road maps. But within the cartographical features of what we do, we have two choices: to either pencil in our own route without seeing what’s around the corner, or allow God to draw the line with vivid, indelible ink. Because each of us are unique and trod our own walks in life, we individually explore the road less travelled. Our adventures may prove to be a long haul, but in the end, we all reach our destinations. The place in which we land our feet is our journey’s end. It could be temporary, it could be permanent – who knows? We could go through several road maps before we reach our intended ports of call, we could just stay on the one, familiar spot that we know, or we could dare to investigate the unknown and take little baby steps.

And there we have it. Happy travelling.