Flavourless

A funny thing is happening to me. And not funny in the haha-I-put-my-knickers-on-inside-out kind of way. More like funny in the have-you-ever-noticed-that-the-lining-in-your-knickers- always-opens-to-the-front kind of way.

Everything is losing its flavour. The edible and the non- edible.

Salty is not salty enough. Sweet is blah. Spicy is off-putting. I eat because there is food available (for which I am truly grateful). But the mojo, the chutzpah, the yum avoids me. I don't feel like eating. I get hungry, but my hunger is not satisfied with any culinary delicacy.

And the things I do seem bland and tasteless. Repetitive, uninspired, boring. My desire to eat and to do is diminished. I am floating in a grey, muted haze, like a moth entranced by a flame. Inside me a voice is screaming silently, trying to wake me up. And I know it will pull me back onto the path. I want to get back on the path. I just cant seem to will myself away from the haze. I need a bolt of energy to my chest (and a kick in the pants, I know). Something to shake the dust off.

I have plans and wishes and dreams I want to fulfill, but it seems the spirit is willing and the flesh is weak. Invisible restraints hold me down. I am tired of them. I want to be free of them, but I just don't have the bold insistence to break the chains. It's all a matter of self-will, I see that. I must will myself away from the bland wasteland. And wanting to be free and energized and driven, I find myself sedated and unenthused and thinking that perhaps I'm not willing the change with enough determination.

Dr Suess, may he rest in peace with the least of a crease in a fleece from his niece, defined my trappings. He called it "the waiting place".

The good doctor assures me that the waiting place is only temporary. That a time comes when you get up and get going because today is your day, you're off to great places, you're off and away!

But not yet.

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?)

Stormy waters

I see you flailing in the waves.

I can taste your salty fear.

The sky is brooding and heavy with elephantine clouds.

There are yet many more raindrops which will fall and fill these heaving waters.

I hear the splashing and the thrashing. The water fills my ears and my mouth.

I want to reach for you. I want to help you.

We rise and fall on the neverending waves.

Please, don't reach for me.

I am not driftwood.

I fear we shall both drown.

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?

The way things are

I suffer(ed) from moderate clinical depression for several years. Recently I've been well. Good. Happy. Content. I'm aware of my manxome foe (thank you very much, CS Lewis), and I know that he follows me wherever I go (there's a nursery rhyme in there, I can tell). Most days I wake up and nod my head to the beast that stalks me. He leaves me alone if I acknowledge his presence.

And so far, I have been free of the great sadness that has been a long-time companion. I have felt, on more days than not, content. And on that full stop rests my everything.

Seems like a bit of mental instability can do an awful lot for one's creative self. When I was depressed I could write. I could play piano. I could paint. I could draw. I could sew and create and design.

But my creativity has dwindled since my depression became manageable. I have had little inspiration. I stopped blogging for a long time. When I sit down with a canvas before me, I find myself staring. And staring. And the magic just never comes.

I open up my blog post, and I have nothing to say.

My happiness is frustrating, as odd as that sounds. I feel I am unable to tap the well within me. The one that holds the enchantment of my very essence. The one that can unlock me.

If you're interested in some of the things I've spent time on, check out my special blog.

Sanctuary

Please turn off your cell phones. Therapy is now in progress.

Sanctuary is such a big deal for me. A place of safety. A place to rest. Protection. Peace. Serenity.

Everyday I want to put "Sanctuary" as my status on Facebook. Why? Because I want it so much. I so badly want to know that I am safe. That nothing can harm me. That I do not need to fear. That I needn't worry about tomorrow. Guaranteed. I feel as though I have ached for sanctuary my whole life. The fear of losing a home, of not knowing if there will be another meal. The desperate isolation of rejection. Facing such unbearable loneliness and insecurity as a child was a nightmare. All I wanted was to be held in loving arms and rocked to sleep; warm and safe.

All I wanted was sanctuary.

And if I want "sanctuary" so badly, surely I should do all in my power to provide it to my children too?

The evolved world is a rotten place. And somehow life continues despite (or maybe because of) the compost. When I think about the challenges and obstacles that lie in wait for my kids, I shudder. There is so much that they must face and overcome. There are so many stresses and problems and nasties and nightmares that I cannot protect them from. What about their sanctuary? Where will they find asylum?

The answer, of course, lies with me. Their haven is here. With me. It is my duty as their mother and guardian to provide them with safe space. Space to be themselves. Space to fail. Without pressure. Space to mess up. Space to let go. Space to make a mistake and know that it's alright and that there will be another chance to try again.

If I put pressure on my children to excel, expected them always to be on their very best behaviour, ran such a tight ship that any misdemeanor got them thrown overboard, there would be no sanctuary for them. No place to unwind. Then the world really would be an incredibly unfriendly place for them. I cannot let that be.

This woman here, pledges allegiance to her offspring. She swears to offer them a place of safety, an assured oasis, a calm in the storm, wherever we may find ourselves in this great big scary world. (Sounds slightly reminiscent of our marriage vows. Hmm.) She aims to refrain from criticizing, she will not manipulate or coerce. My children MUST know that I will always provide them with a shelter against the gnashing, grabbing, gurgling gargoyles that pull down the unsuspecting.

This sanctuary is open. Come home my little chickens.