How do we define 2016? Death? No, Hope. | Weaving Pages: How do we define 2016? Death? No, Hope.

Thursday, 29 December 2016

How do we define 2016? Death? No, Hope.


Portuguese tradition has it that at midnight on New Year's Eve you eat twelve raisins, and each time one passes your lips, you make a wish; twelve raisins, twelve wishes. The minute action is barely perceptible in a room which fractures with the mellow dreams of twenty people, their thoughts glittering with the promise of the coming year. Three hundred and sixty-five days lie as bright, white squares, fuzzy with inactivity that begs them to be coated thickly with painted laughter or have caffeinated tears spilt all over them.

This year, the blank squares have been scrawled over with names. David Bowie. Alan Rickman. Harper Lee. Prince. Muhammed Ali. Gene Wilder. Leonard Cohen. George Michael. Carrie Fisher. Debbie Reynolds. Written in a smudge of black, these are only a few of the names of the very brilliant, very great people the world has lost in three hundred and sixty five days, people who have challenged the world to love with their own self-love; icons of a generation who were able to capture the hearts and minds of countless amounts of people.

There should not be a minute which shudders by that we do not think about them or remember the words that they sang, spoke or wrote that harmonised with the roaring white noise of our world. There should not be an hour that we think of them as absences; they are presences only. There should not be an day their essence does not saturate individual persons; the nerve-endings of the earth who shiver and flare with the legacy they have left. There will not be a year they are not remembered, or a year that we do not implode into the dulcet tones they illustrated the world with.

If there is one thing that remains of this year, no matter the hatred that has raged or the wars that have savaged and the people we have lost, is that we have hope. We have hope because we are still here, still able to see the drizzle of flames fireworks leave in the sky and breathe the sharp air clotted with the spray of champagne. We still have twelve wishes and three hundred and sixty-five blank squares to slather in desiccated memories of our own choosing. Hope exists because we exist, because those who have left the world this year existed. It is the driving force that means next year, one of us will pick up the pen another has put down or pluck the guitar strings that have stopped being played, and with ink-embedded, metal-scarred finger-tips set this world alight.

Hope: as far as we know, that was Carrie Fisher's official last line in a movie, and this year, like all the others, it will be our last line too. We do not need to treat the burns and the scars; they are part of us now, a reminder that we are fickle, mortal creatures who have just as great a gift for destruction as we do for redemption. They will only be dangerous when they heal. For now our stinging pains fuel our fight. We have three hundred and sixty-five days, we have twelve wishes and we have hope, and we will have that the next year, and the next, and the next.

When the world teems with death, the most terrifying weapon we possess is raw, living hope.


rita xo

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