The Unknowns

Entering the year renewed by fireworks and cobblestone streets

Christmas came and went. New Year came and went. We’re in that funny stage of the year where we’re expected to be settled into it and excited about it, but the sun still sets far too early and rises far too late. I’m still eating Christmas chocolate and staying in pyjamas too long into the day. The year has only just been put in the microwave to defrost if you ask me.

When I was a late teen I went with my family to a New Year’s Eve party at a local village hall and had my first-ever drink of prosecco (that I kept, embarrassingly, referring to as ‘prosciutto’ throughout the rest of the evening). I probably had less than one full glass but I remember so vividly how grown up it felt to hold a thin stemmed glass between my fingers and sip on it slowly while standing with the “adults”. I said I could feel the bubbles in my brain, which made them all laugh. It felt good to finally be a part of the pop-of-champagne sound that echoes through parties the older you get.

This New Year’s I brought a bottle of prosecco along to a friend’s house to enjoy at dinner before heading to a Hogmanay ceilidh. I find myself enjoying moments around a table more and more, find myself overjoyed by the sharing of stories, by the passing around of dishes, by offering to set the table, by fawning over one another’s outfits and dashing out excitedly into the cold air of a city street.

After the majority of this year was spent outside of a city it was so wonderful to dance at a ceilidh in Edinburgh, to sit in a bar in the final hour before the bells, to dash down the city streets with the crowds to make it to the Royal Mile only just in time for the ringing in of the New Year. How great it was to scream a countdown with strangers in the street and shout into the firework-filled sky. I have always loved New Year in Edinburgh. I will never not love watching the fireworks over the castle with hundreds of other people.

As the clock struck midnight and the street broke into cheers and people rushed to the best position to see the sky light up, my partner turned to me and smiled and said, “It’s been a good year.”

And it has. 

As years go, it’s been a good one. We had a summer that I’ll remember forever, a summer like no other, one where I felt like a child playing around in the sea, felt a sense of utter freedom. We went to bed with salty skin and sun-dried hair and legs bruised and midge-bitten. Like children who’ve been out in the sun all day. It’s been a year that took an enormous turn, that involved a huge, unexpected move from Bristol to the Scottish wilds. A year where I had to say goodbye to so many people, so many things I knew, and then a year where I met so many wonderful new people who turned into new friends, the kind of friends you can be yourself with.

It has. It’s been a good year.

It’s been a hard one too. One of loss. Grief. A year of conquering fears - of discovering new ones. Of self-doubts and self-growth. As the fireworks went off for a good few minutes - a spectacular display of colour and sound across the sky, the smell of gunpowder floating down over the streets, people stumbling across cobblestones - friends moved to snap pictures of one another, to film videos, to call loved ones. Tourists and locals alike. Strangers all participating in one common activity, looking up into the night together. I found myself thinking about someone who isn’t here anymore, who isn’t here to see this new year in. I felt confounded by the reality of this. I thought about the people and friends who still walk this earth but don’t walk in my life anymore. I thought about the people I should be better at staying in touch with.

The fireworks went on and I took brief pictures of my friends in front of the display. I laughed with them. I looked around at the strangers on the street. Drunken people shouting to one another. People dancing, people laughing, swigging from hip flasks, FaceTiming relatives overseas. We watched the final spatter and fizz, the sky went quiet and smoke settled over the city. Moving crowds began to form, following one another around in search of a pub to celebrate the first drink of 2024, in search of a taxi home, a bus, a bar, a bed. As we walked with the throngs I noticed, briefly, the rubbish from half-eaten takeaways and empty cans left atop walls and bollards, rubbish that will be collected by someone in a high-vis in the early hours of the morning. Someone else’s fun, another’s job to bin.

People leaned out of windows from old tenement buildings to watch the people below. In the mess, I’m renewed. My friends and I skipped hand in hand down the old streets I’ve walked since I was a teen, enjoying the freedom to be loud and silly with hundreds of other strangers. The ritual may not be meaningful in and of itself - and no doubt arseholes leave litter, and people are rude to one another for no good reason - but I found myself fully immersed, happy to be part of the collective chaos.

I caught up with an old friend a few days ago. We found ourselves talking about our shared childhoods and our changing relationships with home, with Scotland, with our beliefs, our careers, our futures. As we finished off dishes of going-cold food in a quiet restaurant, we spoke about what we hoped for in this year ahead, the unknowns that plague us, and even the joy in having no clue. We’ve both shared a lot of life, knowing one another since primary school. Year after year we meet for dinners and drinks and museum walks and vintage shop scavenging, and year after year we explore the past, explore the future, and compare the people we were and now are. There is something to be treasured in people who have known you in the past and know you now. The people who are happy to know both versions.

It took me a long time to really find my ‘crowd’. I’ve been lucky to have a few childhood friends who have always accepted me, but it certainly took a while to figure out what friendships looked like for me as puberty hit, and then, as I left home. I spent a long time pretending to be someone I wasn’t in order to make friends. Once I finally found friends I could simply be myself with, I found myself questioning who I’d been all those years.

I’ve written a lot in past newsletters about our ‘past selves’; the versions of us that have come and gone, that have existed upon this earth in a specific window or place. I treasure the various people I’ve been - and yes, I cringe too. I think of the various dreams each version of myself has had, the people I spent time with, and the places I lived. If you’ve spoken to me over the last month, you’ll no doubt have heard me wax lyrical about a film I watched: Past Lives. The film touched me at my very core. I found myself sobbing and sobbing at the end, some enormous relief, enormous beauty and truth and understanding. It’s not a sad film as such. It’s just that it spoke to something I’ve long felt. The decisions we make, the various versions of ourselves that could exist had we done something different, and yet the wonder that it is to be who you are right now. Here and now.

That, as a line from a character in the film says, “If you leave something behind, you gain something too.”

Two poems this month. I couldn’t pick.

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A post shared by @yesikastarr

TO READ: I must admit, I haven’t been reading much of late. I’ve been buried in writing instead. However, I have a collection of books that I’m very much looking forward to reading after being gifted them for Christmas (and gifting myself them!). However, stay tuned for next month; hopefully, I’ll have some new recommendations for you (promise!).

TO WATCH - DOCUMENTARY: A documentary I’ve been meaning to watch for ages and finally did, Dùthchas. It looks very specifically at the story of the island of Berneray in the Outer Hebrides, particularly the story of women on the island. It explores what it means to leave your home and to stay, whether by choice or not. It also looks at the loss of Gaelic language and the impact it has today. It’s a really wonderful documentary with lots of old footage of the islanders.

TO WATCH - FILM: Well, as I said above, a movie I’ve been unable to stop talking about: Past Lives. The film features Nora, who emigrated from South Korea with her family as a child and left behind her childhood sweetheart, Hae Sung. Decades later, Nora, now in an exciting career she’d previously dreamt of, married to an American man, finds herself suddenly reunited with her childhood sweetheart. The two of them are confronted over just the span of a few days with the question of destiny, fate, and the choices we make in life. It’s truly a beautiful film that breaks away so thoughtfully from the stereotypes of romance movies with an ending I was awed by.

I missed it last month, but don’t you worry - I’ve gone and made another playlist to hopefully scratch an itch in your brain!

Recently I found out about this incredible website - a map of old folk tales from all over Scotland (and further afield!). I would highly recommend you watch some of the incredible retellings of old stories. Often, folklore can teach us a lot about culture and explore our relationship to nature - whether good or bad, whether outdated or holding some wisdom.

I’m so grateful to everyone who’s written to me about this newsletter since I started it in July. It means so very much to me to know that this has brought some joy to you, or made you think, or, even, made you cry! I’m really excited for all that this year will bring and looking forward to sharing more thoughts and musings with you.

Thank you, as always.