good atlas

Dear 2024 Lilly, 

It’s a quiet Monday afternoon. You’re at home now, writing from your light grey couch looking out the glass-covered sliding door towards gargantuan trees out in the park. Old trees. Old trees with small, delicate leaves fluttering against the wind. Delicate leaves painted on dark, gangly branches. They are the first thing you see in the morning when Jay Lyn draws the curtains apart, letting light in. 

You search for birds amongst the dense dark green. You listen to them, tune in. Notice a bird you’ve never heard before. It’s still without a name, so you tell yourself to bring the binoculars out again.

You’re on your morning walk with Lyn and Ollie. Ollie barks at the guard dogs. One cream-coloured, another black with golden baked beans above its eyes. Both too small to be caged in all day. Lyn buys some dental chews. Feeds them as they gobble hurriedly, bits of food falling between the cracks of the cage. Everyday you see them and it breaks your heart. 

A bird flits by. You spot a black-nape Oriole. Little swiftlets here and there. You walk your round, a morning ritual when the weather permits. Eyes still heavy with sleep but slowly coming alive with each step. You come home, make yourself breakfast, usually cereal with cold milk and let it set before downing a hot cup of coffee that will set a rhythm for the rest of the day. Never drink coffee on an empty stomach. You’ve learned this sometime this year. 

You realise lately there’s time. Time to do the work you need to do. Time to nap. Time to do the laundry. Time to have tea. Time to burrow in internet rabbit holes, occasionally finding gems in newly discovered, delicious worlds. You marinate in them. Bubble with indescribable feelings that has yet to find words and that’s okay. You let this wordless, nebulous vastness linger in your body a little longer. It doesn’t have to have words. 

You think to yourself now, this is the most luminous time of my life. 

—

You started the year with curiosity and confidence as your anchor. A little lost but not at all stuck, you moved through life with renewed courage. You drank from the well of friends, mentors, writers, and kindred strangers who inspired you, soul-searched in your own ways and carved yourself some guiding principles to live by. And so you begun the year a little hopeful, even if afraid.

You took on a job you never thought you would and half-way through wondered if you could hold on. You were scared that you’d lose yourself because you felt like you were losing yourself. You actually relished in corporate titles but feel a sour aftertaste that lingered for months. You wonder if you can wash it all off or it might rub off on you further, changing you in ways you don’t wish for. You started to grow weary. Working from home, you became listless, restless, and wanted so desperately to change the way things were. But the money was good. And so you wrestle with all the voices in your head until. One day you realised that enough was enough. 

The first half of the year was a blur. A damp dark cloth across your heavily scrutinised timelines. Your reprieve was the hikes you took. The walks that grounded you. And in time you found yourself hiking the second tallest volcano in Indonesia. 

When you came back, you tendered your resignation. It felt like then, your life begun again. 

To be honest, you’re afraid of sounding like a broken record. You’re afraid of starting anew again. You’re stuck in this perception of linear time and linear growth. You’re afraid of falling behind. You don’t know what to do with this freedom. Sometimes it feels like you have too much time and you realise that this scares you. Your agency makes you anxious. This responsibility feels like a burden. You wonder if you deserve this freedom. You wonder if you have the resilience to see life through. You worry that you don’t actually know what you’re doing and you’re just drifting with the wind like tall weeds. You don’t know why but you think it’s bad to drift, to go along with the wind and whatever it brings with it. 

But perhaps you forgot to stop. Listen closely. The voices are quieter and quieter and you realise this freedom is chaotic but also absolutely beautiful. It’s yours. You worked hard for it. Look. You are calmer, your sensibilities deeper, you are overflowing with gratitude. Over a simple home cooked dinner, over naps with your babies, over the swaying trees and birds perched atop a roof. Over a languorous walk at night. So many things fill you with joy and you give it some thought. 

You have come so far in less than a year even if it took a some time and space to notice: you are exactly where you want to be. 

—

In the coming year, 

I want to listen to my body, heed its needs.

I want to remember that time is not always, not all linear. It can be cyclical. It can be seasonal. 

I want to set my own pace, tend to my own rhythms.

I want to walk through life and tend to gardens, stop by streams, collect moments and bear witness to wonder

I want to resonate in the joy of living

I want to celebrate and appreciate the people in my life

I want to be calm amidst uncertainty

I want see life abundantly, even if I ache with grief upon the atrocities around me. I want to remember. I want to be broken open

I want to eat less meat and more vegetables

I want to walk more, feel the earth beneath my feet.

Etc.

Love,
Lilly