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!)

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.

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?

Girls, girls, girls

When I was a little girl, all I ever wanted was to have girl-dolls. There were times that my mother tried to coax me across the gender divide. She tried to persuade me that boy babies could be ok too. After all, she herself had given birth to three strapping young lads before I arrived, and she had initially found the prospect of raising a daughter somewhat daunting.

It was, in fact, during my baby-doll infatuation phase that the anatomically correct baby dolls became the "in-thing". My mother tried to persuade me that the little boy dolls with their tiny little penises were so much more interesting than the little girl baby-dolls that had a dent in the plastic between their legs.

I didn't take the bait. All I wanted was my girls. Girls. Girls. Girls.

My heart was so set on having girl babies, that at the tender age of 5, I made a point of praying twice a day, beseeching my god to give me girl babies. Surrounded by my three older brothers, I felt outnumbered. I needed to increase the girl power and reduce the loneliness.

You might be interested to learn exactly what I was praying for:

"Hello, God," I would begin, kneeling next to the side of my bed on little grazed knees. Kneeling seemed the right thing to do. It somehow seemed to make my supplication that much more sincere. "Please give me a little girl. I really, really want, er, need a little girl, who is mine-all-mine." At this point I would open my eyes and furtively check on my proximity to the darkness under the bed - my god needed to know how desperate I was considering how close I was to the bogeys and ghoulies living in that thick blackness. I would shuffle on my knees and peek over my shoulder to make sure that my bedroom door was open - I would need an unobstructed exit if a scaley hand were to make its appearance from under my night frill. "Really, God. Please, please, please can I have a little girl that is mine all mine. I would really like a little girl tomorrow please. One that I will look after and keep with me. She can be very little, I don't mind. I'll keep her in my pocket and feed her scraps from my plate. I promise I will look after her very well."

The fear of the lurking predator under my bed would always get the better of me. I would persuade myself that my god could hear my request just as well from under my bedcovers as he could from the rough cold carpet. So I would leap, in one swift fluid motion, from the floor onto my bed. Without interrupting my prayer ("Please, please, please, please") I would dive under my sheets and tuck them in tightly all around me - an impenetrable shield against the forces of evil who schemed world domination under my mattress.

The prayer would continue: "Please, asseblief, please, please, puhleeeeeeze. Oh dear God, dear wonderful, amazing, able to do absolutely anything God, please can I have a little little girl. And please can she be able to speak. English. So that she can speak to me. And I also promise, God, that I will keep her a secret. You don't have to even tell my mom to check on her. I'll look after her very well on my own."

Once in a while, I would think it might be a good idea to let my god know that I had total confidence in his abilities to accomplish the impossible. As I lay tightly tangled in my linen, eyes pinched shut hunds clenched tightly together across my chest, I would declare, "I know you can do it. I believe. I believe. I believe. Please, please, please."

And as the heaviness of sleep began to weigh my little body down, I would promise myself that I would say "please" as much as I could while I was still awake.

And so I prayed. Every day. For more than a year. And as I grew up, I realised how foolish my request had been. Preposterous, in fact. So I moved on.

But one day, many many years later, I woke up and discovered, to my delight, that I actually did have a very little girl who was mine-all-mine. A little girl that I could take with me, and look after and feed and talk to. And to my surprise, there was a second little girl for me to look after and care for, and I realised that I must have prayed really, really hard. The girls were everything I had ever longed for.

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.

In the Beginning

Once upon a time there was a young mother of two little girls, wife to a madly handsome and deeply devoted man. She was a midwife, by training. And so it was that this very simple yet highly complicated female ran a marriage, a home, the school run and her own business, when all of a sudden, her life went BANG! and it all came crashing to a thundering halt.

It was at this time that the young woman began to record her feelings about her life on the blank pages of a massive cyber journal which she wrote in regularly, sending her blog posts out into deep space, seeking comfort and therapy through fallible words and awkward understandings. She passed through a great sorrow, a deep sadness that engulfed her and tried to destroy her fragile world. Somehow, this young nurse found a way through the darkness, all the while journalling her travels in a blog known as The Midwife Crisis.

As time passed, the hazy edges of her life began to sharpen, and her head cleared. She took a long detailed look at her life and realised that she was no longer a midwife nor was she in crisis. And so her aptly named blog became gradually very unapt, irrelevant. And she stopped writing.

But the no-longer-a-midwife-but-seeking-her-destiny girl's heart was full of stories. Her mind played back the memories of her life: the good things, the bad things and the things that had always made her wonder. And the girl had an aching need to record those thoughts, to add them to the vast collection of whisperings sprinting through the ether.

So she sat down and started a new blog. A one about where she was now. About her stories, her thoughts and her wishes.

This is it...