We need more of just watching the wax dry
There’s something irresistibly charming about . . . sealing wax. It’s kind of pointless, barely used any more and also universally loved. My fascination with sealing wax has lasted for the past few years. I’ve managed to find a store that sells it, and buy a stick or two every year around Christmas. The novelty, remarkably, never wanes.
I’ve just finished sealing a bunch of Christmas cards, trying far too hard to make sure the seal sits just right. You don’t want too much or too little wax, so the seal sits perfectly rounded. No question about it, this is most calming thing I’ve done all year.
This has been a year, of course, of tragedy, disaster, intolerance, inaction and stupidity. But I don’t want this last column of 2019 to be like that.
We’ve spent too long analysing feigned moments of outrage and the anxiety-inducing inaction and ignorance of world leaders. In a year where the big issues have never been clearer, we’ve instead worked ourselves into frenzies about trivial topics which can protect the status quo. Instead, let’s talk about holiday traditions.
I love them all. Whether your tradition is to have a few drinks at a pub, watch holiday romcoms or spit roast a pig, there’s something soothing about returning to these same events together.
The tradition of Christmas cards has me especially captivated. It’s getting increasingly hard to send letters. New Zealand Post seems steadfastly focused on destroying its own brand and closing every Post Shop.
In part, the challenge makes it more interesting. Unlike calls, texts or emails, the humble letter requires far superior commitment from the sender.
You can’t send a letter on the go, or even send it while you’re multi-tasking. You can’t wake up to see a calendar reminder, and send a quick letter of apology or congratulations. Letters require contemplation, planning and, most importantly, a level of care.
So, what’s my point? I’m the writer hired, in part, to tackle topics from a Gen Z perspective. And instead I write about a medium of communication which is as old as the quill itself.
This week I invested in a record player, a tool so delicate and overpriced it should be long gone.
Its big discs take up so much space that I will probably have to downsize my bed, couch and dresser to accommodate them in my inner city apartment.
But the bulk is what makes these records great. When I’m not opining or studying, I sometimes write about music. It’s something I care about, not so much because of the intricacies of composition, but because music manages to wedge its way into everyone’s lives. You can map your emotions, and even world events, by the popularity of certain music.
Online, I skip through artists, soak up the latest trends. I jump from album to single like a squirrel on coke, only to forget about every song later that day. The magic is therefore lost.
A record is a reminder. It’s so lavish just to have an opportunity to revisit something these days. And when the music plays, it’s played not just for you but for anyone nearby at the time. It’s an active act of listening, sharing and thinking – something we certainly don’t do enough.
I feel like it’s not just me who can relate to the life of juiced-up squirrels. If you’ve ever seen one, they jump and run so fast their eyes can never focus and they often run into twigs. That feels like all of us right now. Week after week, day in day out, 2019 has continued to throw every problem it has like a bowling machine.
Of course, there have been great moments. There have been 365 days, after all, something good must’ve happened. But when you’re always jumping, scrambling and plastering over the latest issue, you sometimes forget those.
I almost forgot that, recently. The tragedy at Whakaari/White Island, mounted with every other big and little problem, seemed to hit like an avalanche. I see images of smoke, I see children dying of measles, I see manufactured outrage about cyclists/cartoonists/Duncan Garner. I wake up panicked, my heart starts pumping at random times during the day. I have a constant feeling that something is missed, or the day is about to go awry. I get a message because I have missed a bill/ deadline/application. And I think, ‘‘I’m stuffed.’’
But then, I watch the wax dry on another Christmas card while Lorde’s Melodrama plays. The cards take some planning, even if I tried to rush through them. They share messages with friends, recognising a moment in time over the past year.
In the end, traditions give us time to stop, think, and relax. If 2019’s taught me anything, it’s that we need more of that.