Chasing a Dream

For the most part, I am a very level-headed, non-airy-fairy kind of girl. I like practical. I like logical. I like relevant. And for the longest time this is how I lived my life. Practically, logically, relevantly. Which is all good and proper, I suppose. I did the right things. Made the right decisions. Followed the obvious paths as they came up before me.

And then one day, along comes this crazy idea that I can be a bit creative, a bit whimsical, a bit magical. All of a sudden, a road opens up before me that is so alluring, so enticing, so very much where and who and what I want to be. That road is photography. The destination is for me to have a fully fledged photographic business where I can call the shots (forgive the pun), where I can be creative, where I can do something meaningful, that will last.

At first this road looks pretty straightforward, pretty smooth and even. So off I go! As anyone who has taken on a challenge like changing your profession can tell you, these roads are never without obstacles. Before I knew it, the stroll became a hike, became a climb, became a marathon. This road has  not been without complications, but I have met each hurdle head on. And yet the road stretches out before me - further to go than what I have already travelled. Much further...

PLUS, there is a lot of traffic on this road, isn't there? Wowee! Everywhere you look is a studio, a camera resting on a tripod, a flash across the crowd, a photography course here, a discounted lens there. Etching a little niche out for oneself in a very full market is nothing to sniff at. It takes guts. It takes getting yourself out of bed every morning and taking on the world. It takes shouting a little louder to make sure your voice is heard. It takes putting yourself outside of your comfort zone. It takes talking to strangers. It takes learning new skills. It takes support and encouragement from your nearest and dearest. It takes having a fan - someone who believes in you and what you're doing, who reminds you daily that they think you are terrific and that you are not, in fact, crazy.

All the time, I cling on to my dream, my hope that one day I can bravely face the world and say: "Look! This is me! This is what I do! And I'm proud to show you, because I know I did good!"

Very recently, while finding my way on this journey, I was offered an escape route to the road I knew before. I was asked to return to the field of nursing as a research assistant. The pay was exceptional. The hours were great. It was an easy exit. For a moment, I stopped. And I had to take a good long think.

Was it even a question? You may ask. This was a ticket back to a normal life, a normal job, a normal income. Security. Respect. What I have now is not normal. I do not earn a living wage. I do not contribute to the financial upkeep of my family. These are difficult times. The economy is ultra shaky. The cost of living is enormous. Why would I even hesitate at an offer like this?

The job offered would have required of me to be involved in an area that is in direct opposition to my dream of photographing pregnancy and newborns. I wondered how prospective photographic clients would react if they knew I had worked in the field of termination of pregnancy, conducting, recording, facilitating. There was a moment where I held Nursing in my left hand and Photography in my right hand, weighing them up against one another, feeling their individual as well as their combined weights in my hands.

I had to make a choice. And either choice excluded the other option. I was at the point of no return. Either I took up the offer to research second trimester abortions, offering me a foot in the door back into the profession I first qualified in, and forget ever trying to truthfully capture the magic of pregnancy and the newborn photographically, or I turned the offer down, a sacrifice, and continued my journey on a road which is difficult, to say the least, which takes me further away from the profession I started out in, with no guarantees regarding my safe arrival at my imagined destination. I chewed on my options for a long time. Really, I did.

I chose the dream.

I wonder... what would you have done?

Goals

I've been busy.

Busy finding my feet. Busy learning. Busy practicing. Busy implementing. Busy making mistakes. Busy correcting mistakes. Busy learning some more. Busy getting inspired. Busy hitting my head against a brick wall. Busy giving up. Busy picking up the pieces. Busy second-guessing myself. Busy knowing that this is 'It". Busy thinking I'm mad. Busy chastising myself, because I'm not mad. Busy looking for opportunities. Busy losing opportunities. Busy studying. Busy growing.

Busy. Busy. Busy.

And the crux of all this 'busy-ness'? Well it's this, really. It's me realising that I have the potential to do something great that makes me happy, that fulfills me, that is meaningful to others. And as I've travelled this road, camera in hand, learning as I go, I've realised more and more that this is something I WANT to do. I want to make photographs. I want to create beautiful memories.

Here's the history:

When I left high school, finances were extremely tight. I had toyed with the idea of studying photography, but whenever the topic came up in conversation, the extreme costs involved in photographic equipment and film processing brought those conversations to a rapid close. The option was not even up for discussion. Just like the option of studying art at school, or doing pottery as an extra-mural were not feasible options for a family living on a very tight budget. Nope. I had to do something that I could pave my own way in. And nursing turned out to be it. Studying nursing in South Africa meant that from day one, I, a student nurse, was an employee of the state, and as such received a salary for services rendered. Nursing turned out to be the option that allowed me to get a degree and not have a student loan to pay off at the end of the day. (I had been fiercely warned about the evils of a student loan, or any loan in fact, as part of my Defences against the Evil world of Insolvency education).

I ended up specialising as a midwife, and I ran a well baby clinic for several years. And while I loved the moms and the babies, and while I practised safe and scientific nursing, I wasn't really happy. Not really. I remember working in the labour ward of a women and children's hospital in Pretoria, and how every day as I drove to work, I would cry. I was in tears about what the day would hold for me. The fear of losing a patient loomed over me like a dark black cloud. And then I'd get to work and deliver babies and it was AMAZING. Driving home I'd be on a super high, singing, bopping, busting moves to the radio. The following morning would see me, a hysterical driver heading off to work again. And the day would end in me high-fiving myself all the way home. And so it would go. What a completely hectic emotional rollercoaster!!

12 years later, far from my antenatal classes and breastfeeding consultancy, with a pretty decent camera in hand, I have been able to reawaken that small voice that whispered to me in high school. The one that was silenced because , well, this is the real world and we don't always get what we want, and "dreams coming true" is a wishy washy Disney slogan. Maybe, just maybe, with a little bit of luck, and just the right amount of passion, a dream can become a reality.

And I think it's pretty clear how lucky I am ;-) .

So, I have been busy. Busy learning. A LOT! About my camera. About light. About people. About colour. About air and what it holds. About sparkles. About reflections. About shadows. About darkness. About focus. About blur. About memories and what they really mean to people. The more I've learnt, the more I want to learn. And the more I feed this passion, the more I want to tie it to the other areas of my life that I have loved. The preggy mommies. The precious babies. I want to create something meaningful, incorporating the things that I love.

So this is where I am. Or, maybe I should say, this is who I am. And those of you who know me well, know that this has been a long time coming. But I'm ready to say, "Yip. I'm gonna do this thing!"

So hold on to your knickers, people. I'm shooting for goal! (excuse the pun!)

A good life will go on

Wow. How many times have I stared at Blogger and thought: You bad, bad blogger. Sit down now and write something. Anything. For Pete's sake, just do it!

Has there not been anything to write about? No. There has been plenty. Then why not write?

When I started blogging in 2008, it was to deal, in part, with my newly diagnosed (although an old-time companion) depression. Everytime I wrote a post, I saw it as cathartic, therapeutic. And each time I posted it to my blog, I thought to myself, there, I'm a little bit better. The next time I write, I will be happy.

And I tired, on the whole, to keep things upbeat, humorous.

By the time I shut "Midwife Crisis" down, I was convinced that I was no longer in need of anti-depressants, psychiatrists or blogging as cheap therapy.

And so I started this blog, thinking that I would be Wonder Woman, free of Sadness, entertainer of the masses. Hmmm. And I guess the bus stopped there. I wrote less and less, principally because when the time came to write, I would have only sadness to speak of, and I really didn't want that to be the main theme of my blog. So I refrained. And I refrained. And I refrained some more. And basically, the result was that NOTHING happened to my blog. Just empty silence. Charis had, apparently, left the building!

But a part of me wants you to know that I'm still here. That I'm still waking up in the mornings, pushing through the days, and falling, finished, into my bed in the evenings.

And there are good things. Many good things. Creative things. Happy things. Funny things. Beautiful things. Exciting things. I have a good life.

I have a good life.

I have a good life.

And I suffer from depression.

I have a good life and I suffer from depression.

Somehow the one denies the other, but here I am, a physical representation of this mad irony. Good life. Depression. Ouch.

My dear BFF, Sprinkle, is so good about here blogging. Everytime I see a new post up, I cringe, thinking about the wasteland happening here at Chronicles.

But, I am inspired. I will be true to myself. I will not hide the sadness. It is part of who I am. And if you can accept that some days will be good days, and some days will be bad days, and somehow a good life will persevere through it all, then I will continue.

Thanks for listening.

Perfect

(Reposting to remind me. And you.)

Today is perfect. As perfect as it can be. There will be no attempts to change the past. To hold regrets about yesterday and what could have been is futile. Today is the only today I have. And it is perfect.

I am perfect in this day. There is not another day like this one waiting for me in the cubby-hole of the future. Today is the only one I'm going to get, and I will be perfect in this day, for this day.

Tomorrow I will be a different person. A little older. A little stiffer. A little wiser. A little changed. But today I am perfectly me. Today, I cannot be more than I am right now. And what I am today is perfect.

It is a good day to be me.

It is good that I am me today.

And today I will make the most of this perfect day, for that is how I can be the perfect me. I will find the joy in each moment, I will appreciate the weather, I will look at the perfect people who call me "Friend", who call me "Lover", who call me "Mother". Together, we will be perfect in this perfect day.

Our perfection is accomplished when night draws a curtain on this perfect day, and this today melts into a memory called yesterday that we have no hold on. And at that very moment, the tomorrow that we could not control today, solidifies into the today that we are given. And what a perfect today it will be! We will live in this today as best we can, and we will be perfect in it.

I can only be the me I am now, in this unique space called today. I will not get a chance to repeat this day again. The trials and decisions I face today can only be dealt with by the person I am today. If I were the me I will be tomorrow, I may not learn from my trials, I may not appreciate a smile, a word or a gesture. I am perfect today to deal with today. It would not be better for me to deal with today tomorrow. This perfect day has called for this perfect me.

I cannot long for the me I was 10 years ago, that carefree, organised soul - that dear young woman of yesteryear would never be able to manage this perfect day. She could never face this perfect day with its perfect trials and challenges. She was perfect for her perfect yesterday. And I dare not long for the me that I will be in 10 years time - that perfect woman would have no care for this perfect day - her world would be so much bigger than this perfect little day. This perfect day would be a trifling splatter on her speeding windscreen. That amazing woman is perfect for her perfect tomorrow.

No. I must not. I cannot. I dare not look back or look forward. This perfect day has only me to tend to it. This me. This one here. This perfect me.

(Manic maybe?)

Finding the Right Costume

Tonight I attended a lecture at school about preparing your children for the future. While being eye-opening, and all, it left me feeling a little out of sorts.

To equip your child for the future, the speaker urged that an important characteristic your child needs to develop and have nurtured is the sense of knowing themselves. Your child needs to know themself.

Hmm.

Know thyself.

Heck! I don't even know myself! How can I encourage my little people to know themselves?

I am still trying to find out what this body is capable of (now that it's starting to show signs of wear and tear). I don't think I've ever gotten proper mileage out of it.

And this mind? Well, it has yet to discover its passion - the thing it craves more than anything else in the world.

I have not found my forte, my pre-occupation. I still feel like the kid in high school who has to make a career choice when actually, the greatest concern for her at that moment is trying to figure out how to clasp her bra behind her back without dislocating her shoulder. That's me. I'm still coming to terms with this body. This life. This planet. And I'm expected to know myself!?!?!?

I have tried on various robes, and none of them have fit me comfortably. I have dabbled in an assortment of occupations and yet have not found my niche. My happy place. I so badly want to find my purpose. My fulfillment. My craze.

You get these people (just as an example) who are just mad about what they do. They love, love, love their jobs. I've never really experienced that.

Currently my preoccupation is with my children. I just want to be a good mommy. And I want to raise happy, well-adjusted, socially-acceptable, valuable, confident adults. That's my goal.

But the truth is that a part of me wriggles, and sits uncomfortably, trying desperately to be patient; to wait her turn. There's a yearning within me to discover the little piece that would make everything make sense. I wish to fulfill a potential that I believe I have, but have not yet unlocked. I wish to really know myself. If I could know myself, I could be so useful to my children and my dear husband, helping them to attain their potentials too.

In my endeavors to "find myself", I have tried on various outfits, and none of them have fit me perfectly; not without pulling across my enormous boobs, or riding up at the back. I have put on the smock of the artist - it belonged to someone else. I have tried on the shoes of the dancer and carried the satchel of the student. The athlete's trainers left me with a twisted ankle. I have worn the spectacles of the educator, and pricked my fingers with the pins of the seamstress. I tried on the uniform of the nurse and carried the scales of the midwife. I put on the frown of the small business owner, and it gave me a headache. The agriculturist's wellington boots are resting on the doormat. I have tapped on the keyboard of the web-designer as well as at the keyboard of the pianist. I have worn the apron of the housewife and driven the station wagon of the mother. I have doodled with the pens of the writer and blinded myself with the photographer's flash. I have followed the books of the church (which were heavy), and I sang the mantra of the yogis (which lifted my spirits greatly). And in all of this, the thing, the one thing that would define me, escapes me.

Is it too late to go for career counselling?

Mystery of the Missing Menses

In a nutshell, my reproductive history can be likened to a piece of string:

* Tied the knot

* Learnt the ropes (twice)

* Got horribly tangled up

* Snipped the strings (courtesy of Mr Me)

If you follow, you'll understand that I am not a candidate for contraception. Be that as it may, I have been treating PCOS with the pill for about 2 years. Three months ago, I changed pills to one with a lower dose hormone as there is a history of breast cancer in my family, and lower estrogen intake is recommended in that regard.

My first cycle on the new pill was quite exciting. The PMS that arrived two days before my period was sent to test my resolve. More accurately, it was sent to test how much resolve I had NOT to actually act on the impulse to gouge out my husband's eyeballs with a rusty teaspoon, hammer chillies into his nostrils or shove a pineapple into an intimate orifice of his. (I was mulling these things over a salad, apparently). Apart from a few demon hours were my hair caught on fire and I danced naked around a bubbling cauldron for a bit, the first cycle was uneventful.

Cycle two was earmarked with lower back pain out of the middle ages - you know the kind that the donkeys got from drawing the carts laden with dead bodies through the muddy alleys (yes, I know, too much Monty Python). But it too was less than remarkable.

And cycle three? Well. Cycle three wasn't. My week came and went. No period. Period.

So, I hear what you're saying - you're saying "Couldn't you be? Just maybe? Just a little bit?"

I say "No."

Thing is, for me to be pregnant, it would have to be by immaculate conception (why is The Immaculate Conception even called that? Was it a neat and tidy incident?). The sperm, for one, would have to be completely phenomenal. For a start, it would have to have a titanium helmet with an all-purpose drill bit attached to the top to get out of his sealed off nursery. Then he'd have to be able to bungy jump the vast chasm of missing vas deferens to enter a viable propulsion chamber. After ejaculation, that mighty sperm amongst sperm would need to be smeared with anti-cervical plug lubricant as well as be equipped with elusive ovum detecting abilities. In fact, the latter would have to be so good that that little Wonder Sperm would need to find a non-existant egg to fertilise. Furthermore, that dedicated bit of flagellated DNA would need to defy the laws of nature that require suitable womb-lining for implantation, and bury its sweet prize in rock hard, dry endometrium.

All of this would, of course, be a bit like an inmate escaping Alcatraz with only a teaspoon and a packet of Cup-A-Soup, gate-crashing a party at Hugh Heffner's place, only to find out that the guests have already gone, and that all they left behind was a blow-up doll which our stalwart escapee persuades to take him home home to meet her parents, sleep with him and make him a full English breakfast the next morning. Unlikely.

So really, if I were pregnant after all that, the child I carried would have to be named Jesus (gender irrelevant) out of some reverence but mostly surprise. We would probably use the handy abbreviation: OMG! when labeling lunch-boxes and sports clobber (exclamation mark optional).

PS. I did a home pregnancy test at about 2pm this afternoon - just to make sure that the second coming was not going to happen on my watch. Results were negative, as I had suspected. But just to be on the safe side I have gone back to check it every hour or so hence.

PPS. While part of me thinks that being the mother of God could have some awesome kick-backs, the other part of me is grateful for the one line apparent in that test kit window.

PPPS. Note to self: Phone doctor at earliest convenience to find out what in heaven's name is going on with my girl bits.

Pearls of Widom

Yesterday was a really strange day for me.

While it had a notable start (sex in the morning really can't be scoffed at), the day sort of petered out from there. One would think that starting the day with the horizontal mambo would mean only exceptional things for the hours ahead. But strangely, it didn't. It was as though there was not going to be anything else noteworthy for the rest of the day, so the day kind of crumbled in on itself.

And my mood followed suite. By evening, I felt like I had had my life force drained out of me. There was no more oomph. No fresh air. Just heaviness. And tiredness. And a real absence of inspiration.

To make matters worse, I had stumbled upon some overly cheerful optimist's column that afternoon which lauded finding beauty in every day. Cherishing every breath. Looking for something miraculous during your waking hours. Of course I wanted to vomit, but that would have meant that I'd have to clean up, so to save myself the trouble, I didn't. But I wanted to.

By the time 9pm rolled along, I was ready to sign off. Finito. This chick was emotionally bankrupt. So I made my apologies and fell into my bed, where, just by the way, I felt happier than I had ALL day long (except that first part, where we were riding the five legged pony, but it had been so long ago, that it didn't really count anymore).

So, new day. And when I opened my eyes, I wondered how it would be any different to its predecessor. Well, for a start, I did not rock the casbah. Disappointing.

"Hmmph," I thought to myself, "Beauty in every day, huh? I still have to make the sarmies that I didn't do last night." I pulled myself up and started the day.

By the time the school run was complete, I found myself at home tending to some important matters - the things that I didn't look at when they arrived, and while they had been conveniently forgotten about, the rascals had been getting up to all kinds of antics of their own and had multiplied copiously. I had to tend to many of them this morning because little baby matters were starting to pop up between the important matters - and that's just messy.

One of the important matters required me to get my hands dirty in the garden. I stripped off the oh-so-impressive school-visiting attire and donned the more appropriate garden-tramp uniform with socks-in-crocs. I looked fabulous! Off I went.

An hour later I trudged mud through the house (which I had to clean up - oh joy! beauty in top-soil! and other such jubilant crap).

As I prepared to revive the school-visiting goddess look I had mustered up before, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My mud-bedecked dirt-bus image reflected in the mirror. And I realised the moment of beauty. I hadn't taken off my pearls when I'd changed earlier. And there I was: filthy, stinky, and wearing pearls. It was one of those life-defining moments that you try and share with people but know that no-one could possibly get it because they weren't there at the time. Something like what I'm doing right now.

But it mattered to me.

And I think that I will always garden in my pearls from now on.