Symposium of Life

A Pandemic’s Guide to Navigating the Symposium of Life

By Satara Uthayakumaran

No doubt over the past few months, you have been bombarded with self-help lessons from 2020; by experts, politicians, leaders and doctors alike. This is unsurprising, given that the events of the past year collectively gathered to become a wise tutor. Ironically, they taught me more than what was mandatorily prescribed for my impending final exams as a Year 12 student. Here are five life lessons— ones which I hope you might have picked up yourself, or perhaps new ideas which I will gladly bestow upon you in this strange but personal manual of life.

One. Do not just “appreciate” but exhibit a tenderness and warmth to those around you. We have been told time and time again that the pandemic has emphasised the true fragility of life and has shown us the intrinsic gift of human connection. Throughout this period, I was able to appreciate the small nuances of my family, which I otherwise did not observe. My father’s affiliation for black pilot pens, finally learning what mother did in her lab and understanding my sister’s newfound passion for dramatic theatre. When restrictions were lifted, I visited many of my friends and aunts who were elderly, and was able to sit down, listen and interact with them in ways I had not before. Hear their stories, cook with them and see life from a new perspective. Snail mail suddenly became trendy again, and I discovered a newfound joy in pasting stamps on small envelopes and placing them in the red Australia Post bin to travel to distant suburbs and reach familiar faces.

Two. Enjoy saying “no”. The commonplace “take a risk”, “push yourself” kinds of phrases are typical things we hear, particularly as students. These phrases were turned on their heads when the pandemic hit, and suddenly, taking risks and pushing ourselves took on a different meaning. Whenever I see someone stand on the outskirts of an activity, and simply refuse to do something because they are not comfortable, I mentally applaud them. We often feel that in order to fit in, there is an expectation that we are confident in ignoring our senses and leaping into unknown pockets of life.

To say no takes enormous courage, and that in itself exhibits a confidence well worth having. For me, saying no looks like sticking to certain values of compassion, empathy and justice, when probed to do otherwise. For me saying no also looks like not playing bubble soccer when everyone else was trying to coerce me, because I was fearful for my life and dignity. Either way, it worked, and I was proud after letting the word leave my lips. Say it with a bit of passion, or a degree of humour. Whatever you choose to do, listen to your instinct, not other peoples’, especially when it comes to things that you aren’t comfortable doing.

Three. Take long walks (this does not mean uphill). I was lucky enough to stay at two farms over this period, and for the first time understood the meaning of “solitude”. With no-one but the sheep and cows around, I finally “thought”, and listened to myself. Although the sheep ran away which dampened my self-confidence, I felt strangely comforted and surrounded by the spirits of a nature I had never really interacted with before.hilst this was no Bear Grylls experience, for me, it was enough to evoke senses which had only been engaged during school camps, which I always had a certain distaste for, and because of that regrettably did not see the benefits it provided me with. Even if you are restricted to the suburb of your house, I hope the pandemic has helped you find those small nooks and crannies, little creeks and walking trails which you otherwise did not know were there. Go to those places of silence, and revel in them without worrying about what the next day will bring.

Four. Become an amateur scholar in every subject possible. In this period, I was determined to get my boating license, even though I have been on a boat less times than I have thought about it. Nonetheless, even though this did not follow through very well, I still obtained my Learners 826 days late, with the support of my friends who accompanied me to the service station where I sat the test. I became a scholar of music, having picked up playing the piano after many years, and it surprisingly brought more comfort to my soul than I thought. I further became a scholar of Religion, Philosophy, Ethics, Scientific Reductionism, Humanism, and conversed with many other scholars including ex-Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams and Bishop Michael Curry, who famously gave a sermon on love at Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s wedding. Whilst I engaged with my new academic friends, I felt as if I was sitting in the ivory towers of my university apartment and would feel proud of new discoveries I would make. No one judges or tests you for becoming your own scholar. The bounds of learning are endless when it is just you, a computer and some books.

Five. Self-care. Suddenly, lockdowns offered us so much more freedom, it was almost frightening. For those of us who constantly ran around, the concept of not having anything to do, evoked a kind of “blues” and anticlimactic ending to a busy period. I for one, had to learn to sit still, and with this newfound time, examined myself, who I was and what I wanted in life. Although this was a fearful period, it was worth it, and I am glad that many of us had the opportunity to stop our frenziness or at least slow down. I personally took time to think about why I did what I did. Was it for my own self-gratification and the fulfilment which came with constantly ‘doing’? Or was it for a more worthwhile reason, as two people I treasure dearly put to me— to impact others in a positive and worthwhile way? I found that doing things for the latter, made me feel more fulfilled than I had before, when I was constantly running around to make others happy. Our worth is not defined by how full our phone calendars are, or how many alerts we receive a day. It’s by what and who your heart chooses to hold. The most important life lesson, ironically learnt from the comforts of my dinner table.

No doubt, there are a plethora of lessons each and every one of you have identified over the past year, but I hope you might be able to take something from the ones I sat through. Love both yourself and those around you. Love both learning and taking time to be alone. It is the ironies of life which make it the beautiful phenomenon that it is. And whilst we are all enduring a global pandemic, keep remembering that silver linings do appear in unexpected ways.

I’m Not a Real Person, Yet

By Karolina Kocimska

The Thursday of O-Week I went out by myself, with the intention of running into some friends and joining them. Living off campus as I do, it is not possible to wander into a common area and find people, and my housemates had their own evening plans. I caught an Uber into Civic and stood in line outside One22, a party of one.

This would have been unimaginable two years ago, in my first year. I was apprehensive, felt foreign to myself and everything around me. Now, I felt good. Sure, I was getting looks from other groups, specifically ones made up of young men, but it was all mostly harmless, and it had little effect on my mood.

I walked up the all-familiar stairs of old Wolf, bid the bloke I was casually chatting to a good night and lined up for water. It was going to be a sober night.

And so, for the next 40 minutes I drank my water, asked random groups of girls to dance with them and kept my eyes peeled for any friends I could join to appear. I was sober, technically alone, and having a fantastic time. I felt whole, grounded, and confident enough in being a proper, full, and settled person to be able to do this, unlike first-year Karolina.

Growing older means you settle into yourself. You connect with who you are internally and carve out a little space for yourself among the nearly eight billion people who walk this earth. Your existence becomes your own. You learn to claim it and revel in it, wholly and absolutely.

Whenever I tell people I regularly go out sober, they usually respond positively saying “I wish I could do that”. I meet strangers and explain that my friends haven’t come yet, or that they left already, and they are almost always welcoming and friendly. Through my independent adventures I’ve realised that everyone is searching for connection. Everyone wants to feel comfortable within themselves.

The formative moment occurred after Laneway in February 2020. After a beautiful 10 hours of live music at the Old Mill in Port Adelaide, a friend and I headed into town for the afterparty. Tiah and I giddily ran up the stairs to Rocket, which anyone from Adelaide will know as a more indie version of One22 and danced the rest of our energy out. She went home at 2 AM and I decided to stay – the DJ was sick, I felt electrically alive and dancing was an expression of truth.

Hence, I stayed, by myself, in a crowd that was already thinning. At first, I just stood by the bar, sipping water, trying to find an inconspicuous corner I could claim. I wandered over, and immediately looped back to the bar. Too scary. I noticed a small group of people dancing like they meant it, I approached, explained that my friend went home, and asked if I could join them. Yes! Welcomed with enthusiasm, I danced with them until 4 AM, until my body gave way, and my energy was spent. I thanked my companions and got home safe.

The moment that I returned to Rocket after seeing Tiah off, I was strengthening my connection to self. When I walked over to those kind strangers, I was affirming my place in the world, and quietly saying “I exist”. When I felt the bass pulsating through my veins and my body moving in time, I was grounding myself in my own existence, taking ownership of who I was and what I stood for. I was becoming a real, full, and settled person.

Nothing really prepares you for the debilitating existential angst of realising ‘holy shit I am an actual person who is meant to have values and thoughts and a proper life’. You enter the world as an 18-year-old-- fresh faced, and unable to internally answer if you even like yourself. Everything comes at you all at once, and you walk down Uni Ave feeling like a meaningless speck that is at the same time bursting with a desire to have a space in the world, to be meaningful.

The changes I’ve experienced in my sense of self over the last two years have been beyond what anyone could have explained to me. It’s like the dust has settled, and instead of frantically looking around and being uprooted from the everyday, each foot on the ground is filled with intention and with conviction.

This space you create for yourself is one you must fill, occupy, and take full ownership of. Doing so requires an understanding of yourself and enough tenacity to claim said space. It’s your little meter-squared surrounded by everyone else’s and a way to affirm your existence amongst them. Your personhood fills your body, transcends it, and grows its roots through the space. I think growing up is the process of making and cultivating that space for yourself. While maybe it always exists, you need to become whole, complete, and full enough so that you can step into it and make it habitable.

I want to get to a point in my life where I only say and do things I mean and believe in. There is a quote in the film Frances Ha, where the titular character Frances says, embarrassed, “I’m not a real person, yet”. I guess my way of living with intention is going out sober and being assured enough to dance with sweaty strangers in the dark. My space is my own, stable enough in its foundations to allow me to stand alone in the line to One22, the perimeter strengthened by my values, goals and confidence that has been through more rejections than approvals.

Becoming a person is scary. It’s a process that you have to completely commit yourself to. My way of navigating that process was giving up drinking in first year and carrying myself through social situations without the blanket of alcohol. It was journaling, failing two subjects, taking a year off uni and moving back home and doing lots of things alone and then with people. It was learning to smile and say “hi” to the person I kind of knew but whose gaze I always avoided. Your life is your process, and your space is waiting to be yours.