Kiana

The first hour of the year went quite well for me (I hope it did for you, too), with renewed hope and vigor presenting themselves in the most mundane of tasks. When the clock struck 12, I jumped and galloped around the house like some human-bunny, then hugged my grandmother, after which I received a grandmotherly peck on a particular deep inhale-kiss that I don’t know how to explain, but that fills me with a sentimental fondness. I ate an apple and drank lots of water afterward—my witchy way of tricking the New Year spirits to remind me to always be kind to my physical form—then lit some candles and cried a little bit in the dark, while my neighbors ran around singing, making noises—their own way of warding off the bad spirits of the year that has passed and attracting good, kind ones into their lives for the year that is to be.

The end of a year and the start of another is overwhelming. Sitting down to look at myself and ponder on growth is a strenuous, anxious task. I’m keen to judge and be a little bit of pig to myself. Recently I’m touched by tenderness often: in public, looking at a couple eating together; watching a film by a local filmmaker; or walking alone my hands in my pockets. I slip into a series of emotional upheavals and a feeling that my heart is a glass case about to burst open with too-much-ness, reminding me of the poem “So Much I Gazed,” by Constantine P. Cavafy.

I’d like to think I resolved to leave a lot of things behind as a new year dawns, but as ever I am a nostalgic piece of person-work and a resolution of some sort that hinges itself in forgetting is not to be counted on. Speaking of which, I just remembered what a nice time I had at the end of 2016, and how I’m happy and thankful that I get to share my stories here.

At the onset of Christmas break another group of friends I rarely see planned for an overnight stay in a nearby island just 20 or so minutes by barge from the city. The first stop on our itinerary was a cliff, rather different from the one I jumped from last break, about 20 to 40 feet above sea level. Dude, was I rickety with anxiety. I watched my friends jump twice before I got EXTREMELY ANXIOUS that I retreated from the cliff and stood shuddering under a tree for a moment. I guess I need to watch myself as I tiptoe around extremes. “Sumuko at tumalon sa kawalan,” Kim told me in Filipino. About an hour has passed, and I still was rooted on land, a goat shivering and looking out at the horizon.

Losing oneself or throwing oneself off a cliff, figuratively or literally, is a thrilling romantic idea, but when your brain gets enough traction and starts spiraling, calculating all the probabilities of death/oblivion, you lose all wit and cower in fear. I’m glad my friends did not pressure me to take the leap into nothingness, which encouraged me to think it through and bide my time before jumping off the ledge. LOL, ME! But it was fine, even when it wasn’t high enough, really; finer than I could have the words to explain. This time—a lot different from my first cliff-jumping stint—I managed to stick my legs down and fell toe-first on the water. Thankfully not butt-first this time. The waves sloshed and threw me around. The water was too salty for my liking. It was satisfying, nonetheless, with my friends cheering me on and congratulating me for doing the jump; and also fellow cliff-jumpers who were strangers, exclaiming “yay!” and “yuhoo!” at my feat. Afterward, we hopped on motorcycles and drank by the beach as we watched the sky go from zero to 100 majestically, splendidly, quickly. I ached and cried and then was transported back to tenderness at the glory of it all.

(Note: I’m reading The Secret History by Donna Tartt right now and just laughed at myself long and hard because I seem to have latched on to the tone and prose style of the book? I do this unconsciously, emulating material that I read. My god, forgive me for I have and will continue to sin.) ♦