Home Sweet Home

After a week in the Kruger National Park, which was wondrous and amazing and such a priveledge, we returned home to our 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom, study, open-plan, well-lived in home.

And I realised (again) that I really love my home. I am a homebody. I want to be at home. I like being at home. When I'm away, I miss my home. My home is definitely where my heart is.

I want to share some of my favourite things about my home with you. Starting today, I will post some of the little things about this place that make me happy. Just for the heck of it.

So for today's showcase, the floor! When we were house-hunting all those year's ago, this was the very first thing that jumped out at us when we happened upon what is now our home.

Throughout most of the house, oven-baked terracotta tiles cover the floor. Each is slightly different to the next, with tiny flaws and defects that add to their charm. In fact, there is actually one tile in my living room that has a small hole chipped into the top of it that is the perfect shape of a heart. Do you see it?

I think I love my tiles because they aren't perfect. Like me. They are uneven and bumpy and discoloured and quaint.

Nestled in between some of the tiles are small ceramic tiles which just add a splash of "unusual" to my home.

I love my tiles <3 !

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.

Dear Blog

I suppose it is a heinous crime to have a blog and not to keep a blog - possibly the same as having a goldfish and not feeding it. I am guilty, I confess, of gross blog neglect. Can there ever be pardon for this foolish sin?

So I'm just checking in. Again. I'm still here. I live. I love. I inhale. I scream. I cry. I ache. I ponder. I laugh. I make. I break.

Since my last confession, so much has happened. My DH resigned his fairly prominent job. My baby started grade 1. I found me a business partner happy to think along the same lines as me. The guinea pig was raped by her son - oh the horror! I started a story. I stopped it because it was becoming so very, very sad. I started another one that looks more promising. I started a ladies' art night once a week which is TERRIFIC! I lost a LOT of money through an unscrupulous con artist. I painted a canvas or two. I took MANY photos of food on request and have yet to hear what the requester thinks - might not, but that's family for you. And I thought a long time about my life till now and have realised that I most probably will not ever go back to nursing (unless my DH remains unemployed for very much longer... watch this space).

So things continue. I think of you often, sweet Blog, and of all the things I know I want to tell you, and then I think of that family of mine and how much trouble I'd be in if I said the things I want to say, so I hold my tongue, and my breath, and feed on the blogs of others.

But I am here. I carry on. And I will try a little harder to check in more often.

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.

Testing me

Yesterday morning I was woken to the sound of a ceramic plate smashing on the floor in the kitchen. Needles to say, I flew out of bed, gripping the passage walls to steer me in the direction of the kitchen, and arrived there, all bedrugged and sleepy, to find my darling daughters in the throes of making breakfast in bed for their sleeping parents.

The shattered plate lay in shards and two pairs of bare feet tiptoed around the edges of the splinters.

I was about to warn the owners of those naked feet about the dangers of glass shards when my eyes fell on something else. My youngest daughter was about to remove hot toast from the toaster using a pair of metal braai-tongs.

"AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!"

is what I screamed in my head.

"SSSSSSTOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!!"

is what my mouth screamed.

Everyone burst into tears, thankfully unelectrocuted.

So I guess that makes it a good day then?

My terrible confession.

It's safe to say that birthday parties have been a big deal in our house. The reason for this is not very clear. I have a couple of old photos in an album of simple parties thrown for me as a child. Not many, but the few that are there have captivated my memory and my imagination. They are some of my favourite childhood pics. I guess that by throwing super parties for my girls, I hoped to leave them with memories (amply recorded on film) which are happy and satisfying.

My girls are 6 and 7. As far as birthday parties go, that's 13 ticked off. We've had, in chronological order, the following birthday parties:

* Musical (1)

* Bubbles (2)

* Pretty in pink (1)

* Fairies in the garden (3)

* Butterflies (2)

* Mary Poppins (4)

* Princesses (3)

* Mermaids (5)

* Ballet (4)

* Pet party (6)

* Teddy bears (5)

* Arty Party (7)

* Jungle fun (6)

All these parties (except the first, and least memorable) were self-planned, home-hosted, DIY events. A LOT of time and effort has gone into each one. And a LOT of money. To justify the expense, I must just add that I have always been very grateful for the fact that one daughter celebrates in July and the other in December. This has given me ample time to plan, create, spend etc from one celebration to the next, thereby never really feeling the pinch of the extra effort and money that has gone into each event. It is quite true to note that most of these parties were 90% ready-to-roll a whole month before the event actually took place.

So back to today. I never really know how much I have spent on a party (as it is over several months, and I usually include items in with my groceries), but I estimate that overall costs have been well over a thousand rand. Which, I understand, is about average for a party these days. Give or take a couple of hundred rands.

Which brings me to my terrible confession...

In July we tucked the youngest's sixth birthday party to bed and, as is normal, discussions for the eldest's next party ensued. The party themes being discussed in great depth ranged from Dolphins to Hospitals. Everyone's creative juices were flowing. Everyone except for me. My creative juices were rancid and drying uppish. I was experiencing a creative juices drought.

The thought of arranging another party has, for the first time in my life, loomed before me like a cold monolithic mountain, daring my to ascend. And quite frankly, for the first time ever, I do not want to plan a party for my dear daughter. I do not wish to take on the yolk of party planner, even if it is for my sunshine child. No thanks. I'm just not in the mood.

So here's the bad part: to weasel out of my party-planning responsibilities, I resorted to bribery. I made an offer I knew my sweet child could not refuse. I turned to the old "Money or the Box" ploy. Five hundred rand versus a full blown party. Money to spend on whatsoever she should choose, versus the time and effort and love of a carefully planned celebratory event.

She considered her alternatives over a couple of days, switching from one option to the other. Eventually, she chose the money. She let me off the hook.

I bought her out.

BAD MOMMY! I know.

Of course we will still celebrate her birthday, but there will not be a party for her this year.

Feels kind of strange.

Feels good. Feels bad.