29. A foreign number.

by Alex from Maybe ( ) Together

I was scared of 28. And now I’m 29.
28 was the year my mother got married. That our family began. A late-ish marriage in her time, it was an age I’d always thought I’d be married by. But not so. Very single even.

But as Saturn returns unfurls itself, I feel a sheet of foreign armor around my middle that assists me.
Perhaps this is the time I’ve been waiting for.

A  friend sent me an email for my birthday and mentioned how much I’d done this year.
This at first seemed odd, asfor me I feel like I’ve done little.
But then I reflected and found this:
Camping with a hammock. And feeling the salt on my skin.
A new years eve of realisation of a crush well and truly gone.A dip into hospitality again.
My first arts x activism in City Square.
The first beginnings of Small Voices.
A frame drop that, really, failed.
A speed trip to Perth and the beginning of a love.
A time of missing.
A death.
Grief. Reflection.Then a time of travelling.
Of interventions in London. A residency in Denmark.Performances in Milan. Discovery of Jeremy Deller.
A delve into Joseph Beuys.
A sense of freedom and change.
Stagnant waters of a relationship beginning to end, yet so much hope.
A week in Sydney.
A weekend in a commune.
A bit of being lost.
A new studio.
Trying to keep love alive. But it falling apart.
Dreaming of new projects. Applications galore.
A pussy riot dance.
A caravan launch.
Making with kids in Arnhem Land.
New friends. Social endeavours. Conversations of change.

And amidst it all, this hardness begins. This resilience.

I didn’t learn Danish.
I didn’t watch Ted talks every morning.
I haven’t done enough yoga.
I haven’t danced enough, grown a garden, or called my brother every fortnight.

But I’m human.
We’re all human.

And that’s something to be pleased with.