2026 is here

 

I saw out 2025 and welcomed in 2026 in a truly wonderful way. Our young priest at the Cathedral was truly puzzled by why we didn't have a Vigil Mass on New Year's Eve. We were equally puzzled why we would. "But it's the biggest Mass of the year in Vietnam!" he said. So, what did we have to lose? 

The Vigil Mass wasn't easy to plan for - we didn't know whether 15 or 50 people would turn up. The plan was for the Cathedral to open at 10pm for adoration and Mass would start at 11pm. I wandered down just after ten o'clock. The inside of the church was lit up with candles, there were about 80 people sitting quietly in prayer, the only sound a small murmur of children's voices . By the time the Mass started, the church was full. Our priest's eyes were full of joy as he processed up the aisle and turned to welcome his people. And his joy was infectious - it seemed to fill the church.  In his homily, he said "you could have seen in the new year with noise and alcohol and fireworks, but you've chosen to be here, in quiet reflection, with your church family, in the presence of God." We all felt the wonder of it. It was just after midnight when he stood to bless and dismiss us. He said those final words of the Mass and then looked around and cried out "Happy New Year!" - and the church erupted with clapping and shouts and people hugging. It was....simply glorious. 

It took me days to come down to something resembling normality. It seemed to signal that 2026 would be better than 2025, with its bombardment of terrible news from overseas, the near-constant anxiety and outrage coming out of the United States. Things will  be different, I thought. But within days things seemed to get worse: bad - awful - news from Gaza and Ukraine, a super power threatening to invade Greenland, and this sense of a bleak corruption emerging out of the Epstein files, the rotten heart of the powers of this world. Perhaps it's always been there, but never has it been so un-apologetically, aggressively visible. I swore, when Trump was elected a second time, that I wouldn't let it get to me this time, that I'd close myself off, focus on here, now, in Aotearoa. But it seems impossible to escape. 

Closer to home, my mother's health is deteriorating. In January, she ended up in hospital with vomiting, high blood pressure, and stomach pains. I had to stay with her while she endured - terrified - a CAT scan. Picture me, standing in the room in a heavy radiation-resistant vest, unable to hold her hand, singing Amazing Grace, the only way I could think of to keep her calm(ish). A cascade of consequences have tumbled out of this event. And I didn't really see how far my mother's mental health had fallen until I had to spend 40 minutes in a waiting room at the hospital with her to meet with a gerontologist. As she became increasingly agitated, I scrambled for ways to occupy and distract her, singing, reciting poems, playing hand games, regardless of the people in the crowded waiting room. When we finally got to see her doctor, she asked "why didn't you bring her something to play with while we talked?"   In that moment, I saw my mother through the doctor's eyes, saw something I hadn't recognized in the long, slow decline.  But she can still recite parts of Jabberwocky with me,  still say the Lord's prayer which is the way I end every visit now, trying to keep in her mind the deep faith that has been the guide and the heart of her whole life. 

As if infected by all the bleakness of the human world, the summer has been wrecked by storms and cold, angry winds.  We have lost apple trees, most of our plum crop. The fruit on the 200 tomato plants Bruce planted is not ripening. And a few days ago, I woke up to something in the air that said: autumn is here. Where did the summer go?

It is difficult to see what this year will bring. So for now, I focus on the joy around me, the delight, the sense of holiness and community that enveloped me on that very first day. I have made my first garden and served sweetcorn and beans and peas, and cauliflower, courgettes and spinach that I've grown myself. I've planted flowers, at home and around the bee cottage, and Bruce made me hanging baskets. 

 My African violets have made me absurdly happy every day. 

And there have been birthday parties, and gatherings of the pilgrims from last year, and harvesting and processing of fruit, and trips to Wellington with Rose and Grace. I'm reading my way through a Victorian literature project and listening to one piece of music, chosen by Anne, each week on repeat to broaden my knowledge of classical music. Lizzy is coming home for a holiday next week. Best of all, in two weeks the whole family is gathering for our first family wedding, to celebrate the little family in Takaka who bring us all such joy. And there is George. 

 

Whatever is going on around me, I choose, in my heart and mind, to be here, with a stance of quiet reflection, with my family and my friends, in the presence of all that is good.