Views from the Edge of the Pier
White. The colour of the soundless hospital room.
Black. The colour of pain. The darkness that surrounded me after finding out the person I loved most in the world had left mine.
Red. The colour of a heart ripping in two at the betrayal and unfairness of it all.
Blue. The colour of sadness. The taste of my tears on the pillow.
Green. The colour of loneliness. Endless days spent walking alone to ease the heartache.
Yellow. The colour of hope.
We lost a lot in 2020…
We lost our jobs. We had to find new ways to busy our hands. Imagination and creativity the blocks we used to escape the shrinking walls around us.
We lost our ability to travel. We had to seek new ways to journey. Discovery came from noticing the beauty in our own backyards.
We lost our old habits. We had to cultivate new ways of being. Life in lockdown meant we looked deeper into the mirror and came face to face with our true selves.
We lost the freedoms we took for granted. We had to learn that liberation comes from within.
We lost relationships. We had to find the strength to be alone.
We lost loved ones. We had to find new ways to grieve.
We lost certainty. We found possibility.
Photo 49775756 / Heart © 9george | Dreamstime.com
I had so many beautiful words to describe you. You couldn’t see what was beautiful inside me.
I tried to share my world by telling you about the people and things I loved. But you only loved yourself.
I tried so hard to reason with you. But I was on the receiving end of your unreason.
You may choose to forget what you said, but I will never forget how your words made me feel in those last, dying days.
Unseen… Unloved… Unheard…
ID 115692602 © Tose | Dreamstime.com
Nothing thrives in ice. There’s a point where even the warmest heart cannot thaw the coldest soul. Which got me thinking…
I wonder if love in Latin countries is warm and fiery like sunshine and spices? If so, does that mean that love in the North needs to be unwrapped from deep layers before it can be revealed? Do frozen fingers mean frozen hearts?
Loving someone is like giving them a box of fire. It can gently heat both of you, or it can burn white-hot, searing your soul and leaving scars. But if your heart beats warmly, why shouldn’t you share that gift? You can pour your love into the people and projects that matter most to you. On balance warm hands are better than frostbite.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Illustration 147365356 © Archivector – Dreamstime.comWe have new neighbours in our Belgian abode. We know them intimately even though we haven’t met them yet. And no…we are not twitching curtains and peeking through our very high and dense hedge…
In my home life, my preference is for a quiet life. Over in the coastal reaches, I know my neighbours…just enough. In fact, we are closer together (by way of meters) than we are in Belgium. We exchange pleasantries. Keep an eye out for each other, each other’s parcels, pets and parents… and, generally life proceeds at a reasonable volume and we all get along.
Can’t say the same for Mr. Angry and his wife/partner/concubine (her status varies…) who, in the land of Ned (a.k.a. Flanders) have moved in next door! Even with hermetically sealed windows, pouring rain and a fair offshore wind from Zeebrugge, we can still hear them screaming at each other. I don’t mean ‘a bit loud’. I mean blood-curdling, ear-splitting invective!!
word for word…
some words you really don’t want to hear…
Don’t get me wrong…all couples disagree. And yes, they argue. Sometimes voices are raised and frustration is expressed. That is of course part and parcel of married life, or life in general…
This is not what is happening here!
Under other circumstances, I would probably turn my stereo on max, light the fire and generally ignore what was going on with other people. Believe me, I have enough of my own shizzle to deal with. In this case, I am seriously concerned.
He is a dangerous man. She gives as good as she gets. And perhaps we should leave it there?
I can’t.
She is also pregnant, and already has two very small boys who are routinely screamed at by both of them…because that is how you parent, don’t you?
Half my readers will berate me for judging. The other half for not having kids of my own. Well, I may not be a biological parent…or a judge… but I am a human being. For me, this is not ok. It’s not ok whether you are a kid, or a grown up. It’s not ok on so many levels!!!
Which creates a dilemma for me…
I am concerned for the small people who have to experience this as regular life.
I am concerned for her unborn child, and for her – seriously, if alcohol affects your foetus, why would stress hormones be any different?
And yes… I am concerned that her partner/husband/ass-clown (his status varies…) will move from verbal abuse to physical abuse.
What do I do?
Here are some facts*,**:
All of this troubles me. Despite advice to ‘leave it alone’ and ‘don’t get involved’.
I can’t.
I am resolved not to be the neighbour who ignored the silent screams.
…
* Source: European Agency for Fundamental Rights ** Source: World Health Organisation: Femicide
Image: Copyright Pantone
Was it just me, or was 2018 one of those years? You know, when the days on the calendar keep turning, but the world doesn’t…
Well, not for me anyway. I spent most of last year feeling like a spectator in my own (personal) life. Watching things unfold from the sidelines. I mean…nothing majorly bad happened, but then nothing spectacularly good occurred either. If I coloured in last year, it would be…erm, mostly beige.
For a monkey mind like me, this is not actually a great state of affairs. If wine is not involved, time spent mulling produces spiky notes instead of spicy ones. And beige is certainly not my shade of choice!
I’ve decided that this year, I am holding the palette and the pens! Monochrome may be the filter through which I observe life, the universe and everything, but in my heart I most certainly am a purple girl. Exciting times? Colour those days scarlet…Fun with friends? Those would be mauve. Happiness? Violet, of course!
Days may be numbers, but in 2019 days of beige are most certainly numbered. My inner crayons are not for sharing with people who love blandness. You have been warned!
In case you all think I have a jet-set lifestyle, may I correct your assumption. A week in New York – for work – followed by a fortnight in South Africa – for family – can seriously mess with your melatonin levels, and your mindset. Jets, notwithstanding.
Image: © Chiromancer 2018
Both trips were welcome, but having spent exactly one night at home with The Belgian, swapping suitcases and clean underwear to hop on the overnight from Brussels to Cape Town via Dubai was somewhat dislocating. Even the cat was upset!
Which got me thinking. At the ripe old age of 52, being asked where I am from, or where I live is more complex to answer than you might think. I can legitimately claim ancestry from at least 3 places (hence the triple passports) but I also find myself living somewhere I did not choose, with someone who I most definitely did.
So where is home for me? Heading back to the Mother City was a revelation, and yet I felt apprehensive. Not to see my family – I love them and we come together far too infrequently – I felt nervous because I wondered if I still belonged to a place I had left decades ago. Would I fit it? Would I feel comfortable in a city, a country, a continent that had changed so radically? Was it home? Or just homesickness?
Image: © Chiromancer 2018
It might have been both. Sometimes your soul itches…Driving through landscape that captures the light as much as it captures your breath, I felt somehow whole. As the desert flowers shared their beauty, my soul stretched. When I saw the ocean…I wanted to cry with the loveliness of it all. In that moment…I realised that family, fynbos and familiar landscapes all reminded me of who I really am. And perhaps of where I truly belong. In my heart, in my soul. Here. My heart.
But here I am instead. Northern Hemisphere. And according to people who know, the most boring country in Europe. Well, it is rather flat. Geographically speaking. Emotionally speaking. Sometimes your soul contracts…
This week’s lesson is about expanding your universe. That only happens if you choose to ignore your emotional geography and go exploring anyway.
Last week, I travelled to New York on business. Lately I’ve been there more often thanks to a super client who is based in the centre of Manhattan. I get to stay local, which means I can walk to their offices. A rare treat given the miles I usually do for work.
You’d think that my good intentions would go out of the window since I was working and living in a hotel, but I decided that my philosophy for week 1 of Project 52 was…to be curious. Open about trying things differently. A bit zen about which side of the road to cross. Which is why on Tuesday, I found myself in a fabulous Japanese place off 54thStreet.
Now I’m no stranger to Japanese cuisine. The Belgian makes his own sushi at home, and my very favourite restaurant in Bruges is Japanese. I could tell this was the real deal since I was the only white girl sipping plum wine at the bar! I soaked up the atmosphere while snacking on sashimi. Delicious, and all because I felt curious enough to take a walk after work.
The Asian theme continued on Wednesday and Thursday. One of my rare pleasures when travelling on business is putting on my pajamas and watching trash TV. This is not because I am curious about the lives of Real Cows of Connecticut, but simply because it is a chance to order room service and switch my monkey mind off for an evening.
To add to the ambiance I decided to try a Korean face-pack. That was because I’d read about them in my in-flight magazine and was curious to see if soaking my skin would actually help with the jet-lag. Cue incomprehensible instructions and hilarious Nonglish (English, but not English) translations on the packaging. Which way up is this thing supposed to go? It felt really good, despite the fact that I looked like a serial killer with a serious moisturiser habit.
Friday finished with a familiar cab ride to the airport, but the wrong terminal. Curious to see how I would get home, I asked the assistant for help. No problem, he said, there is a shuttle bus that goes between the domestic and international terminals. You can drop your bags here as security is much speedier than the main international terminal at JFK. It really is. It took me 10 minutes to get through US Border control instead of the usual 45. Bonus!
Of course, all this has got me thinking. Sometimes being curious is as much about asking the right questions as it is about taking the road less travelled. Face-packs not included.
What did you discover this week?
Project 52 is my personal journey of discovery. You can find out more here, and if you’d like to join in, please post on the blog.
Illustration © Vladvm – Dreamstime.com
This weekend marked my 52nd year on Planet Earth. Which probably makes me old school to anyone born in the Snapchat era, but which doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. Gravity induced frown lines and fuzzy felt jawline? Now that’s pesky. The opinions of selfie-obsessed snot-noses? Not so much. One of the perks of maturing is that some things just aren’t worthy of your worry. Which got me thinking…
52 years. 52 weeks in one year. If age is just a number, then I’d like this to be my lucky one. Instead of waiting till 2019 to craft a New Year’s resolution, I’ve decided to make this birthday a year of revolution. In short, I’m beginning my Autumn by turning over more than a few leaves. 52 to be exact!
I’ve decided that each week from now until September 2019, I’m going to pick something positive that I do consistently for the week, and then blog about it. Some things may stick, others may flop. I won’t know until I try, but I’m curious to see if I’ll be the same person this time next year. I’ll be sharing my adventures and experiments here under the guise of Project 52. You can join me if you like…
Image: Chiromancer 2018
It’s been a while since I packed passport, arranged a visa and hot-footed it somewhere else for work. This week took me to New York for a new assignment. In my previous, pre-stepmom life, this would have been an ordinary trip. I travelled a lot. For work. For pleasure. I used to do a lot of other things…a lot. Now that I’m married to the Belgian – and stepmom to his boys – this trip adopted new significance.
Being alone in NYC as a kick-ass consultant reminded me of my days when I really was kick-ass, no-kids. No husband. Fun. Me. Just me. Me…alone. This time, being alone in New York also reminded me that I have some boys at home who might be missing me. Turns out they did…even Watson, our cat was happy to see me…But, it also reminded me that I’m good at what I do, that in my professional life, I am respected, valued and rewarded as…me! Sometimes this is hard to know when your role is being a stepmom and wife to boys who are from a different culture. Sometimes a different planet…
Change – which I do for a living – is not rocket science , but somehow, having to change my life from careerista singleton to married stepmom was harder than I expected. Not so much science as a rocket up my butt! Ouch! Much harder! Now don’t get me wrong, I love the Belgian and I would not swap my current life for the world, but it’s nice to be myself – just me,myself, I – for a change. For a change…being a working woman alone in New York meant I could order juice for breakfast, spend hours blowdrying my hair, explore the city after hours and catch up on some much needed sleep.
Sometimes you have to go back, to see how far you have journeyed…
Pier Point 