Rain

When shit starts hitting the fan, people react differently.  Some people scream and shout. Some put their head in the ground.  I put my head down and work.  I work because there is always something that needs to be done: whether it is organising home care for a sick relative or writing 70 scripts for the new channel.  I work.

I don’t mind it, it makes me feel a little bit more in control of something that I know is actually nowhere close to in my control. 

But today, I was overwhelmed, and my sense to start working never kicked in.  I felt like staring into the nothingness for a really long time, hoping that the answers to life's questions will magically fly into my head. 

I’m worried about my mum – nothing major, but she is growing old, and she is all I have.  I like her, she cant go anywhere.  Not yet anyways. 

I’m worried about my decisions, its big and important ones and have the potential for greatness but it also has the potential for pure, frikin disaster.  I’m worried about the words coming out of my mouth – I’ve been so angry the last couple of weeks, I’ll fight with anybody who looks at me the wrong way. 

And probably the most menial of the lot, Im worried about my car… Its broken down two months in a row, after I got it serviced.  Being dependent on my car, I really really don’t need it.

Somewhere in the afternoon, I sat myself down and started.  I started on the tons of work that’s staring at me. 

My nature eventually kicked in, and three hours later I look up.  I looked into a dark blue sky of thunder and rain.  I felt better.

Not because I eventually made a dent in the work, but because to me, rain heals my soul.  Its God way of telling me that He still is in control.  And I like that.  I work hard, but I’m not necessarily good with this grown up stuff.

Bitterness

Today I am bitter. Very bitter.  Its was a whole sequence of events that led to me feeling like this – feeling like I want to give up on people, hate them forever and wanting to go live on a very secluded island.

I hate that my skills and my knowledge have become invaluable.  That I’m only judges on the colour of my skin. I hate that people first fight, before asking both sides of the story.  I hate that I can work hard for whatever I want, but others have a sense of entitlement.  I hate that it’s because I work hard, people walk all over me.

I hate that I’ve never in my life felt like this, but now it consumes me.

It’s this feeling of not wanting to believe in people – even though most of the time I’d like to see the magic.  It’s finding that your half full glass is actually half empty because of the colour of your skin.  Its feeling like whatever I’ve put in, up to this point isn’t good enough because I’m not the right colour. 

It’s watching a project going wrong, knowing what needs to be done and not being able to do it.  It’s getting the phone call, saying please help, when the project has finally hit the fan. 

My mentor, a guy with more patience that I’ve ever seen, will tell me – if it wasn’t for other people’s screw ups, we wouldn’t have a job.

Fair enough. 

I can crises manage, and have managed several projects back to normal after the fan-episode.  But I’m tired of not being ‘good’ enough to manage the project from the start, but to only help save it.

Hopefully, in heaven, we won’t see colour, but we’ll celebrate the magic that happens when wanting, willingness and skills combine.  Because, as far as people go, yep – I hate them for now, but they do come with a certain bit of magic. 

But for now, I like animals better. They don’t talk back.

Film sequence

    

Constructing a sequence is one of the first things they teach you in film school.  It consists of frames, each with each own action, that comes together as a chase sequence or a killing sequence or a fashion show sequence.

In an Episode of Criminal Minds, Reed comments that human emotions aren’t linear and that it cannot be altered by one event or announcement.  It takes a multitude of years, experiences or faith to overcome the tragedy that happens to all of us.

Normally, one can’t remember that definitive moment where your heart, mind and body aligned to finally move away from the tragedy – its as if you wake up one morning and realize that you’re ok again.  You somehow made peace with what happened, not necessarily in the fact that its ok, but rather that it’s a part of life.  And shit happens.

I believe that there are multiple things that can assist in reaching this point.  A lot of people say time heals, others believe in keeping busy or getting away to a secluded place where you can face your demons and deal with them.  If it’s a breakup – most girls would recommend girls night, many bottles of wine and chocolate. And for the evenings for when the heartache strikes, romantic comedies with a box of tissues. 

I tend to think being around people that care about you helps.  On one occasion, I went to my friends house late on a Saturday afternoon, bursting into tears the minute she opened the door.  She was busy getting ready to go out, and sat with me the entire afternoon as I spilled my guts.  Perhaps I felt safe enough to burst into tears, smudge my make up a ruin a date to cry my heart out about what I know was busy happening, but didn’t want to face.

Not sure what the exact recipe is for getting over, or moving on from the shit we face.

One day, there will be that one moment, that one morning where you’ll feel like yourself again.  Where the past will play like a sequence in your head, from beginning to end.  You’ll feel a small part of your heart ache as you remember what had happened, but later as you watch the rest, you get to a place of contentment. A place of being ok with what happened and perhaps, knowing that you grew from it.

Whether its after a certain amount of chocolate… Or glasses of wine.  I don’t know, at this point, I prefer popcorn. 

Might as well enjoy the movie, right?

Becoming

This morning I was standing in the shower thinking of how I’m going to pay off my second car breakdown in one month.  I had no idea, it’s the one situation that I hate. I feel inadequate and useless when my car breaks.

Finally, after washing my hair – I made peace with the fact that I’d have to pay off the debt while saving for my dream: to live in India.  And somehow still paying the normal rent, petrol, insurance and, and and…  I’d have to do it over two months to still have a little bit of time to prepare for Christmas.

While putting on my make up, about 10min later, I got all teary eyed.  I was thinking about my life: my dreams, my wanting to not be ordinary and how the hell I’m going to do that.  That was my worst fear, together with growing old alone – was to be ordinary. 

When growing up I went from wanting to be a cop, to working in marine life to wanting to be in the Navy, being a doctor for Doctors without borders and being an actress.  No idea where the actress part came from as most of the other had something in common: doing something for other people. 

The navy idea stuck around the longest – about five years, and even though two broken ankles and 30 metal pins kept me from passing the medical exam, I still hold it close to my heart.  I get all happy when I can see, read, participate in anything related to the Navy.

I dream big.  Or rather, I was given big dreams.

Am I supposed to make my dreams smaller to fit in with life? Or the expectation of what my life is supposed to be? Am I supposed to live the life I dreamt of, even though it involved loads of trusting and taking chances?

I don’t know. I know what I want.  I know my skills.  I know that I will survive whatever is thrown my way.  But on how to take the final step towards it… Leaving behind a perfectly ordinary life: no idea. 

Perhaps I’ll leave that for Monday morning, as Fridays meant a little less thinking and a little more relaxing.

Birthday

I cut my hair over the weekend.  Quite a dramatic change, my hair has been shoulder length for a couple of months now.  I just needed to do something different. 

Its my dad’s birthday.  The most feared day of my year.  

I always have to remind myself to not burst out in tears at work.  Making peace with the day he died is one thing: that’s hard, but its ongoing and heartbreakingly sore. You make peace with the fact that it’s a constant in your life. 

But birthdays only come once a year.  It’s the day when you want to jump him with a bear bug, spoil him with good dinner, bake a cake especially just for him, ice it with colourful sweets and spend time just being with him.  

I miss his birthday: I don’t have anybody to spoil, or to bake cake for and putting flowers on a grave doesn’t quite fill that void.

I have to remind myself every time when I feel like this that all people faces all kinds of crap. Even though I feel like I’m the only one having to deal with a traumatic illness, watched him lose his mental and physical abilities and feeling so out my depth.

The sky will probably still be blue in 20 years time, today.  I will have more wrinkles and will have more stories to tell, but I hope that I’m wiser. 

And that I’ll remember him, all of him. And find a way to celebrate life. Somewhere, everywhere. 

Nights

I dressed a little nicer this morning – not my usual, very casual attire. I knew today was going to be one of those days. A long one. A difficult one. And one that I would hate to remember.

Turns out: I was right.  14 hours later, we’re still pushing the deadline.  It went from better to worse, to even worse.  And everybody is freaked out, frustrated and so over it.  We’ve been pushing this deadline now for 5 days – with very little thought put into this process, its one of those “feel your way around it”. And lets make the same mistake seven times, as if we haven’t learned anything from the first six times. 

I want to blame someone.  Two weeks ago I made a big issue about the way I thought its going to turn out.  Almost everybody ignored me saying I was getting worked up over nothing – fortunately, my worry stems from a similar situation three years ago where we almost moved the world 20cm every single night.  And that carried on for eight months, and by the time the project was done – so was everybody involved.  But no, Im worked up.

As I walk down the same corridor for the 17^th time I think back on the many, many, many nights I spend doing this: crises managing, meeting (almost) impossible deadlines and cleaning up messes.

Don’t get me wrong, I like the thrill of making something almost impossible work.  I like meeting a deadline and Im good at crises management.  But, I don’t want to spend all my nights doing this…

I want to plan something and have people work as a team, in order to meet the deadline.

The chain is just as strong as its weakest link.  Blame game – at this point – not much help. Best now is to find a solution.  But I know what went wrong; I know the link and Im wondering how to solve it, to prevent the same thing from happening next week.

We have this saying in my home language, you can bring a donkey to the water, but you can’t make it drink.  We can try our best to enable, support, guide and assist people but we cant do their work for them.

The one thing

I rarely reach the point where I don’t know what to do next.  I always have a back up plan, another way to go.  I sometimes think I might as well write ‘Plan maker’ on my CV.  I do it for a living, I plan things and when it all goes wrong – as it normally does, I make other plans.  I come up with solutions.

Today, however, I don’t have a plan.  I’m stuck between a rock and a very hard uncomfortable place.  I sit behind my computer, put headphones on to try ward off any possible interaction. 

I want to move on from my current place of employment, but I cannot find anything else.  Not that I’m not trying… but that’s a whole other story. 

I am a bit of an adventurer and found the idea of working in another country incredibly appealing. New cities to discover, new people, beautiful architecture… It can only be great.

The answer I get from everybody is to teach English somewhere.  I looked it up, it’s possible to go pretty much anywhere: Thailand, Japan, Korea, Philippines, Taiwan, Singapore, Malaysia, Costa Rica, Brazil, Turkey, Czech republic, Greece, Italy, France, Kenya… Take a map, close your eyes and pinpoint. 

The problem: I stutter.  Not much and it’s never kept from doing or trying anything new.  Problem is now, I cannot teach if I stutter – and I cannot not tell people.  It’s dishonest.  But how do I tell any recruiter that yes, I think I’d be amazing, but I stutter where speaking is 80% of the job.

It’s never bothered me, it seemed at one point that it bothered others more than it bothered me.  I’ve stuttered for as long as I can remember and I find ways to work with it.  Been to speech therapy and no, it didn’t do much… Making peace with it - made a big difference.  Its part of me, like my freckles, it’s apparently here to stick around for some time so instead of getting an ulcer worrying about it, I might as well make peace with it. 

Why all of a sudden does my life depend on something I cannot do? Nor not as well as others.  Are all the things I can do not enough?  I’m human, nobody can do everything…

Life

I walked outside a little while ago.  I looked up, the sky is the same blue it was yesterday. Or is it?  I see crew rushing in, most of them frowning – and this is relatively early in the morning.   I turn around to see small changes in the tree, as the weather gets slightly warmer.

I realised that I can’t remember what I had for dinner last week – except the wine I had with a friend on Tuesday.  Trust me to remember the wine…

I can’t distinguish the weeks anymore, never mind the days.  It becomes a big blur of work, friends, and evenings at home. 

What exactly are we rushing off to? Are we working harder for money? That might or might not grow depending on the mood of the world powers in that particular week.  To spend a long weekend to with family, in which we spend the majority of the time trying to forget about work and unwind.  

Is this what our lives have become? Do we rush from work to home, into gym and make appointments with people we call friends.  People who have seen me cry, and fight and horrified by life.   People who I’ve known for years.

What is it about the quest for being better? Or being busier? Or being richer, that captivates us? There are multiple theories on where we go when we die… Whether you return in the form of another animal or as a spirit, I doubt whether you’d be able to transfer your old world with you. 

A lecturer of mine raised an issue in one of our Mass Communication classes: she asked whether becoming better is really a thing? Aren’t we created to be just who and what we are?  Why are we constantly trying to be fitter, stronger, more knowledgeable and gain more skills?

Im sure most of us need to pay rent and buy food – as living off love and water, uhm, well… doesn’t work that well.  But perhaps I can make an effort to see my people, spend time with them and notice the trees around me more often.  And perhaps play with some kind of animal, they are so free… In my next life I think I want to return as a penquin.

Hate

I hate that I saw abuse for the first time when I was five years old

I hate that I needed to see the people I love, being hurt

I hate that I never had the money, or resources or power to help us leave

I hate men

Because they are arrogant and abusive

I hate that I still cry about the pain you caused us

            After you’ve been dead for four years

I hate that I build walls: because I only trust myself.

I hate that your actions left scars so deep

It cannot be healed.

I hate feeling like this.

Escape

We all leave for different reasons: we leave for a better future. For a holiday.  For revenge.  For freedom. For better opportunities.  We leave to be inspired. But if you have nothing, and nobody left – is it still leaving?

Whether leaving involves a car, a bus, a train or a plane or something as simple as a resignation – there comes that moment that you walk alone.  Through the gate at the airport.  Climbing on the bus or through the front door of your employer. 

Nobody can do for you or help you with.  You do that alone – that decision was yours.

Alone means taking responsibility for your life, your actions and your future. Even though we all look back onto certain decisions in our earlier life while shaking our heads, thinking “What the hell?!”. I believe we do the best with what we have: we decide and risk and jump with the information we have at that point.  The funds we have at that point and the faith we have at that point.

Leaving everything you know behind is hard.  There’s a saying: “Life starts where your comfort zone ends”. Noble thought, but horribly scary if that’s you leaving it all behind.

We grow accustomed to our paths: the colleagues at work, the way your car rumbles and the conversations your friends have.  That’s life.  But all of that is temporary.  It breaks, it fights and it ends.  Much like life. 

Escaping your world, means to leave all you know today and yesterday and for as long as you can remember behind.  But if you have nothing: no family to cheer, friends to care, a job to pitch up for or a cat to feed – I think its harder.

You’re that anonymous one- the one who just walked out. Not having anything certainly makes the packing easier, but emotions and memories aren’t bottled. They follow us everywhere: they remind us who we are, what we’ve faced and what makes us happy.  Its not so easy escaping them.

Dont lose that, escape from that or run away from yourself – you are you for a reason: face it, enjoy it and love that you get to create a new chapter in the book of You.

Someday you’ll find someone to tell your story to.

Freedom

I was reading an article online about refugees most prized possessions.  It ranges from a headscarf which was a gift, a horse, an old tea set symbolising the social interaction and culture that comes with this tradition and books.

I’ve never had this decision. 

I guess most people haven’t.  I looked around my house that evening: my graduation pictures with my parents, the computer I saved up for; for over two years, the cool cushions that was a Christmas gift from my sister and I couldn’t decide on one thing to take.  I decided that I would take my stuffed dog, not very practical but great emotional importance.

I live in peace.

I don’t need to worry about safety.

About my next meal.  

About clothes.

I’m fortunate.  Very fortunate.  I can pray to whoever I want and not be prosecuted for my faith.  I can surround myself with human beings, whether they are pink or green and not be told otherwise.  I get to go to work every day. 

Being a refugee means giving up all of the physical representations of your life and fleeing. To be safe, to live.  Living in a tent, relying on aid organisation to provide you with basic items: maize meal, clothes, blankets, soap.  All things we take for granted.  That is, if you’re lucky enough to make it into a refugee camp.  You surrender yourself as a non-person, as the article called it.  No home, no place to go and a very bleak future.

My home is the place I feel safe and comfortable and after a rough day – the only place I want to be.  It’s filled with things I love and appreciate.  I have enough food in my fridge.

I guess I’m free. 

Death

Madiba is in a critical condition in hospital.  It’s all over the news. Its all people talk about. And if you work with anything related to media – you’ll know people have been preparing for his death.

It’s a horrible thought to prepare for someone to die.  It’s death: it breaks, it screams, it hurts.  It’s horrible. 

You hope when you’re young that it will happen when you are old and wise.  Older - yes. Wise – not so sure.  Three of our cats passed away in the past year. 

The first, a ginger that my mom found in a little pet shop when I was in high school – he screamed really loud and she brought him for next to nothing.  The cat needed loads of love, hugs, assurance and loads of food. But he flourished into a fluffy animal, always by your side.

The second, Skapie, as I called her – she reminded me of a sheep dog, thus the nickname.  Given to us by a colleague of my mother, she was a lady.  A little cat, with a big heart and very much human.  She greeted me when I called her name and came running.  She washed herself several times a day and would find the closest human hand or cat body to wash as well. She slept on my bed and would sit upright every night when I woke up in a panic because of a nightmare. 

Both of them passed away within a couple of weeks from another. I tend to think Skapie died of a broken heart, she couldn’t be alone.

Klein kat, a tiny tiny kitten my mom found in a pet shop was run over by a car about two months after we got him.  This little one, found its human in my mom and brought her all the leaves that autumn had to offer into the house… Needless to say, quite annoying cleaning all the leaves but definitely worth seeing this little body struggle through the open window with a leave twice his size.

I’m not sure that any of us knows how to deal with all the shit that finds us, but little things make it better. Our friends, looking a full moon, red wine, chocolate… TV series, if you’re me. And our pets – they make us believe in life again.  They teach us about love.  

They teach us that the world looks a little better after a long nap.

Fences

They say fences make good neighbours. 

It was part of a poem in the 10^th grade – not that I can remember much more, but I remember this.  Fences also have gates or entrances.  Perhaps it’s not about the fence but about the other side of it.

Do we ever really know what’s on the other side? The others side of a job interview? Of a plane ticket? Of a long overdue fight? Or that email that took you two days to write because you had to sleep on it? Of a date?

I’m not sure we do, and I’m not sure that if we did we’d know how to handle it. 

My first job interview went well.  I walked out feeling good about it.  I got a call exactly 3 hours later saying that I got the job, but little did I know that my superior was going to tell me I’ve got a demon because I stutter.  Not exactly what I had in mind for a good entry into the workforce.

A friend of mine had a hectic year last year, but in March last year she said that she wanted to go to Mexico.  Somewhere in December she climbed on plane, flew 20 hours to the other side of the earth, to Mexico.  She spend Christmas eve walking down streets as the locals were singing Christmas songs… She came back amazed by the little bit of earth she got to explored. 

Do we know what we’ll find on the other side when we step off the plane into a new country? Google, as much as I like it, cannot tell you everything. It can show you some insights into the life, the costs, the traditions, the transport system and the housing but it cannot prepare you for its hidden secrets.

It cannot tell you about the homeless guy, who during the summer months, sleep on a ledge on plastic, because then at least his blanket won’t get wet.  It cannot tell you about the guitar player in town, who owns nothing, who walked away from his family when he lost his job.  He eats one meal a day and plays guitar for small change.  It cannot tell you about the Mama who walks her 6 year old son to school every morning, quietly praying that he creates a better life for himself, while she cleans houses.  It cannot tell you the way the city smells after a thunder storm.

Perhaps it’s not about knowing what to expect.  Perhaps fences are stuff that conforms us, that keeps us safe, that we grow out of.  Stuff that are not meant to last forever.

The demon lady didn’t last.  The Mexican holiday came to an end.  But the sun rose again the next day.

Passion

I visited one of the Community TV Channels I work with this morning.  As I drove into the township, I stopped at a traffic light.  The cows next to the road were staring into the nothingness while chewing away the grass.

It’s in an old school.  It’s a couple of class rooms dedicated to telling the stories of the people of that township. 

I like visiting the Channel. It’s a colourful place – its just around the corner from famous Nobel prize winners home and the setting for many documentaries.  But to me it’s almost a miracle - it’s a place where the people have a different outlook on life. 

They hustle.  They play.  They work.  They laugh.  They dress up - never mind what the weather does, nothing will stand in the way of a fabulous outfit. 

It holds very little resemblance to the corporate world I know – there is less politics.  Less emphasis on how to behave and more on getting the job done to the best of your ability.  There is an almost touchable passion from the make up girl, learning to speak a new language because she is actually a trained stage actress.  The classrooms are all painted bright colours and little groups of people have their morning coffee and magwinya’s in the sun. 

I realised as I drove out, to me it shouldn’t be about the politics.  The BEE status or the profitability of a company.  That’s someone else’s passion.

It’s about doing what makes you happy – telling peoples stories, creating something from a heap of chaos, advocating for knowledge. Whatever it is that makes your heart happy - do it. 

There are people to whom the politics are important – not me though.  To me it is just about enabling a storyteller to create beautiful, truthful Community TV.

Love

For most people their stories start with a song – a lyric that make them think of a particular event or story.  A friend of mine told me, that in every part of his life – he’s got music, most of it filled with Smashing Pumpkins.

For me, all my happy memories start with one song: Yori Yori by Bracket. 

It was in 2011 when I stepped off a plane at 03h30 in the morning – when the wave of heat hit me, I realized I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into.  I was in Tanzania, a place I later fell in love with.  The people, the history, the palm trees next to the highway...  I’d taken a leap of faith with the trip, it was my first trip and inspired by a friend of mine who told me about Zanzibar, one Saturday morning at work (who knew working over weekends could be this good to you?) She ended her story with: “Why not just go?”

It took me 9 months to save up and plan my trip. But any place new, at 03h30 in the morning, is kinda scary.

Days later, Id met a couple of young men, all of them fairly new in the country – they’d all moved from India to Tanzania for work.  For them, the other side of the world.  We went to the beach one night, all 6 of us squeezing into one taxi.  Yori Yori started playing. And continued. Turns out the taxi driver also really liked the song.

I remember I looked out the window as we were passing the ocean, thinking that I couldn’t be any happier.  This was my adventure: carefully planned, saved for over months and as I found out later, the traveling bug had bitten me. 

The party on the beach was great: had beer, watched a glorious African sunset, danced.  Laughed at the guys. 

I remember my first trip like it was yesterday, because to me it’s the place I fell in love with.  I fell in love with the laughter, the sincerity of its people, the way each day was grasped & filled with energy and dreams and life.  The spirit of people I think of as my own. 

I fell in love with Africa and will spend my days exploring every inch of it, because of how amazingly resilient the people are.

Wish

I wish I could make you understand that I've put in everything
I gave
I learned about you:
             Your culture
             Your language
I grew to love you
I grew to hate:
               my whiteness
               my religion
Because you didn't want it.
But I get to live under an African sky
Filled with hope
My friends
My God
And me,
As you left me

Today

Today I am hopeful. Hopeful for my dream to come true, hopeful to see the world one day and hopeful for everyone who isn’t.  Earlier in the week I wasn’t hopeful, I was thinking about what it would be like when I’d finally be able to walk away: on my sitting couch, with incense in the background – I must admit, I’ve thought about it so often, I have it all planned out: with lists, action plans & budgets. 

But that night I received a message from a close friend of mine, a picture of her & her husband with a blackboard which had the message: ‘now it’s the three of us’.  My heart skipped a beat.

They’ve been trying to conceive for a long time, like a really really long time.  She gave up her favourite dessert wine from Stellenbosch – which is fantastic and can only be brought on the wine farm - to give her body the best chance to become a mother.  It didn’t happen, even after tests, doctor visits and fertility treatment.  I called my mother right away, as my mother & I have been praying for her.  My mother prays.  She prays every morning, on her knees, like the picture we all know from the children’s Bible.  She prays with dedication, love and honesty. She never stops praying.  And we prayed for Lisa to become a mother.  It happened.

I realised that miracles happen, long after we expect them to.  Long after we’ve made our plans.  For Lisa & her husband it’s a miracle, but for me it’s a sign to not give up hope.  To still believe.

To be hopeful that when I get to walk away it will be to something great: for happiness, for adventure, for my heart and with the enthusiasm of an 8 year old.