A toast to a mediocre year.
A recap by Dr. Ana, an expert in all things unsolicited.
This year I have read some good, some bad and a lot that has left me indifferent. At this point I ask no more from literature. However, in my last letter of the year, I wanted to point out three texts, two in English, the last in Spanish, which far from leaving me indifferent have made me reflect on the nature of this life, a succession of days that slip through my fingers.
The first, by Virginia Woolf, from her book “To the Lighthouse.”
With her foot on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishing even as she looked
The second, by
which describes so well how unbearable it is to know that all good things come to an end. But it left me reflecting that everything bad also must come to an end (carrot and stick, Sudana). The third, a text I stumbled upon recently, by that made me cry with an emotion impossible to contain when I saw written by another (which always validates your certainties) that you write your own story, that it is not about what happened to you, but about how you lived it. A text that inspired this letter in both content and form.So, my last letter of the year is dedicated to 2024, which is passing into posterity with neither pain nor glory. A simple “meh” that has insisted on applying the carrot-and-stick approach on me. I wanted to end the year by sharing three images from Duolingo that made me laugh while I was learning Danish. The world insisting on tarnishing love and the Duolingo people insisting on teaching us how to say “I love you” to strangers we have just met in new destinations.
What can I tell you, I dig love. And I dig it a lot. And I dig it in all its forms, but during these holidays I have thought a lot about the love that comes without obligation, that is born out of the ether between two strangers who owe each other nothing. I have a few of those loves, but this Christmas I have delved into two in particular.
The first, the one that my friend CL and I profess for each other. CL and I met in Boston in 2012, where I moved to after I made the decision to leave a low-paying but secure job for a low-paying but insecure one. What can I tell you, one likes to do everything well, even the bad things. The fact is that CL and I worked in the same centre and we became fast friends, although I say we became friends when what really happened was that CL adopted me. She, with her people skills and her charisma, already had her own gang, but perhaps out of charity, or because she recognised something in me that was hers, she made me her family. Since then, and in spite of distance and life, which insist on making it difficult for us, we show a stubbornness that insists that we meet at least once a year to have lunch in Milan for Christmas.
The other love born of the ether is the one my mother-in-law and I have for each other. You may say that it doesn't count, that it's an obligation, but you'd be wrong. Because the law says that mothers- and daughters-in-law are only obliged to tolerate each other. But when I arrive at her house, she takes out the slippers she bought for me a few years ago and keeps them pristine between visits. This gesture makes me say to her “Agnese, I love you as much as I suspect you love me.” To which she replies “Ma certo! Io dico sempre che non ho un solo figlio. Ho due bambini, un maschio e una femmina.”1 Ladies and gentlemen, this is how love is shared out in my mother-in-law's house, in spades.
And thinking about all this, and reading a little here and there, my conclusion about 2024 came to me like a meteorite crashing into the planet, raising a hell of dust that kills all the big things, the dinosaurs, the disappointments at work and the unfulfilled expectations despite the titanic effort invested.
What remains when the dust settles is the small things, which don't seem to count but when summed up tip the scales.
What remains is my two eldest children singing “Last Christmas” on the piano because P has learnt the chords and CA has memorised the lyrics in English. What remains is CA bowing to the applauding audience after her Christmas piano performance, beaming with pride for a job (hers) well done.
What remains is the mile-long summer spent at my parents’ house listening to Julio Iglesias, my mother’s original soundtrack when she sews. The dancing in the school yard all night long, the perseids and the paellas on the beach.
What remains is E, standing by the swimming pool, taking off his swimming armbands and shouting “jag är en stor pojke”2 and of course, big boys don’t need armbands or bullshit of any sort, and then proceeding to jump in and show us that it was true, he didn’t need armbands or bullshit of any sort.
What remains is the car trip I made with the three children to go swimming in the river. An hour and a half behind the wheel even though I hate driving, with the three of them sitting in the back listening to Nirvana greatest hits on loop, and the same on the way back because they know I’m insecure when driving and I need to concentrate. What remains is the phone call with C in the evening telling him how it was swimming in the river and that “mum drove and did quite well and didn’t get nervous.”
What remains is the camping trip the five of us made at the end of the summer in Skåne, cooking omelettes on a minute camping gas and the children exclaiming “this is the best omelette in the world” because even powedered Nescafé tastes good when camping.
What remains is the party that our friends V and R threw just to celebrate friendship, because our friends understand that friendship is a reason in itself to throw high-class parties, with champagne, tie, heels and a DJ.
What remains is E, celebrating 4 years with a “normal” party, at home, with juice, Nutella sandwiches, cake and ice cream. A party to which his friends came without presents, because we asked them to, and they played non-stop all afternoon. What remains is that E still mentions how much fun he had.
What remains is P, asking us to sign him up for guitar lessons to learn “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” What remains is his most repeated question this year, “Mum, what’s your favourite Nirvana song?” “Lithum, P, it’s Lithium.”3
What remains is CA asking me to make her a spa at home, and me filling the bathtub with lots of bubbles, cutting cucumber slices that she professionally placed over her eyes, and lighting candles in the bath to get the right effect. What remains is her smile of satisfaction at seeing me take it all so seriously.
What remains is C, my number one fan, reading everything I write with a smile on his lips. What remains is the discovery that at 45 I still have the curiosity to pursue other interests and the strength to sit religiously in front of books to learn; and what remains is C, once again, taking the kids to the park so that I could study.
What remains is the trail run that MJ, S, C and I did. What remains is S reminding us that we had paid to participate, and our laughter echoing in the river canyon. What remains is that I ran my second half marathon in Helsinborg and that it was a beautiful day and that halfway through the race I started to laugh like I used to when I ran as a child. What remains is that I reached the finish line sprinting, even if it was only a little.
There remains lunch in Milan with CL and my slippers at my mother-in-law’s house.
And there remains the laughter that resounds off the walls of my house and echoes in the tunnels we pass through on our bikes.
Today I wanted to write a little more of my story, the story of 2024, because I have realised that writing makes me fall even more in love with my life. As
once said in a note—maybe this is why we write, in an attempt to taste life twice.
So let us raise a glass to the year that was, and to the year that will be. What can I tell you, the passing of time is inevitable, but it is certainly better than the alternative. I will start the year on hospital duty. I don't know if starting the year like this is a good or a bad omen. I'll let 2025 tell me about it one day at a time.
Yours in divine (im)perfection,
Dr. Ana,
Expert in unsolicited advice
PS: I leave you with a bit of carrot and a bit of stick. Don’t ask me which is which because I really couldn’t say.
"Of course I do! I always say that I don't have only one child. I have two children, a boy and a girl’.
‘I'm a big boy!’ E is not very fluent in Italian or Catalan, so Swedish works for him.
Nirvana has been the OST in my house this year.
Our mutual comfort in silences, laughs and deep conversations made it impossible not to love you from day one.
Thank you for this post that it’s impossible to read without a smile, for the kindness, purity and sincerity!
I’ve been keeping a distance from the online world recently, to focus on and cherish these little pieces that make up the quilt of our happiness, that you describe so poignantly.
You’ve captured a very uplifting and universal feeling, this is the best thing I’ve read in a while on here.
Happy New Year!