{old enemies}

i think i must have been 10 or 11? we were asked to do a school project on winston churchill and i was excited. my dad was a history buff and he had a collection of books on and by mr churchill. so i couldn’t believe my luck: i literally had all the material i needed to excel, right at my fingertips!

i remember spending hours on this project. pouring over book after book, dictionary to hand, as the language seemed particularly foreign and difficult to understand. but i didn’t want to waste this opportunity. i didn’t want to lose this moment where i could shine. i wanted to show what i could achieve. what i am capable of.

then the day came and we were selected to read excerpts of our work in class. i stood up proudly when it came my turn and started sharing my hard work...

the rest is still a little bit of a blur.
but i don’t think i got far before the teacher shouted across the room, “stop!”
i was stunned. stopped in my tracks. there was silence in the classroom.
i turned towards her, confused.
“where did you get that information?” she asked suspiciously.
was that a trick question? i didn’t know what to say. i don’t even remember how i responded.
i know i started blushing. embarrassed as everyone was looking at me, but not in the way i had hoped or imagined.
“do you know the meaning of the word plagerism?”
i didn’t. and it didn't matter. i was curtly told to sit down and that was it.
there was no opportunity for me to defend myself. no time for me to explain that every word on that page was mine, woven together from hours of research.
that was it. that was my moment.
i felt choked. i wanted to cry. i wanted the proverbial ground to open up and take me away.

metaphorically speaking i don’t think i ever lifted my head up in class again.
i don’t think i ever made eye contact or volunteered my work. and even after mrs g moved on and i moved up, my report cards would always say, “she sits quietly in class and needs to contribute more.” but I never really found the courage to put myself out there after this. never wanted to share my work, for the fear of being ridiculed, or worst yet, accused of being a fraud. in fact this imposter syndrome has stayed with me for much of my life and, until these very moments typing on this page, i never really connected the two.

do teachers truly appreciate the power that they wield? although no experience has since scarred me to the same extent, the other memory that comes to mind is of another teacher...
the details are a little different, but the overall action was similar: public humiliation.
this particular incident was all to do with writing on the top line of the page.
i know, how inconsequential can it be?
but that was the bug bear and, as it was something i had been unused to, despite being asked more subtly on a few other occasions: so on this day it became a public flogging.
loudly ridiculed in front of the class for not being able to understand basic instructions, i was told to spend the rest of class writing “i will remember to write on the top line of the page” repeatedly in my exercise book. i hated her for that. and i remember hot tears burning in my eyes, as i scribbled those lines with anger, followed by humiliation, followed by embarrassment.
although I never did forget to write on the top line again...

funnily enough she ended up being one of my favourite teachers and as such i paid no real regard to our acrimonious beginnings. however now, looking back i can see how she dented my self confidence. and i think this experience paved the way for my allowing others to make me feel small without challenging them, because i believed they had my better interests. in a roundabout way i guess she gave the minor players, in this theatre of creative injuries, a stage to dance on.

so, can i make it a hat trick with the monster teachers’ hall of fame? I think i can!
ms a, my last art teacher.
initially i loved her. she had all the qualities of a great teacher: she was beautiful and softly spoken. she was encouraging and kind. she wore clothes that made her flow around the classroom, and her hair was always tousled and held together precariously in a wild and bohemian fashion that i associated with creative types (and still do – much to the chagrin of my own flat, thin and painfully straight hair)
i trusted her and she made me believe that i had the ability. the talent. the creativity...
and then she failed me.
i felt conned. duped. it was so unexpected. i was completely unprepared. and i didn’t understand.
that experience lived on and has often made me doubt myself and the words of encouragement others may say to me. how do i know they aren’t fooling me too? just like she did?

so these are the ghosts of my past: the teachers that moulded my future. and until today, i didn’t realise how intrinsically connected some of my current neuroses are linked to these events...

but probably the biggest enemy of them all. and the hardest to accept is...
my mother.
the one who is meant to be your greatest champion.
the harbour of safety, where you go to shield yourself from the storms, to be restored and protected...
not here!
if it isn’t to tell me i can’t do something, she would tell me how she could do it better.
and if, god forbid, she felt i did something better: then she would make me feel guilty by giving up herself: “what’s the point of me doing this, you already do it better.”
so now, if I am doing a joint activity with someone, or in a group and someone praises me, i am very quick to illustrate a flaw, or pass the compliment on to lady luck, or just reflect the compliment right back.
i just find it difficult to accept, own and most of all – believe – something good about my creativity. or that it doesn’t come with heavy conditions.

it is extraordinary sometimes to think about the long lasting impact something or someone can have on you. or the domino effect that a seemingly small incident can create. i wonder how many people actually think about the consequences of their words. particularly when dealing with something as fragile or delicate as someone’s creativity...

yet they seem smaller on the page now. the experiences more isolated.
the impact less catastrophic .
even my mother. she lives with us now (after being debilitated by 2 strokes) and, although she hasn’t really changed, having my husband as a neutral control helps me work through what is real and what is projected.
certainly i feel being older helps.
as an adult i feel more able to control what i choose to accept in my life and the people i surround myself with.
it has probably taken a little longer than i expected, and i am still learning about who i am and what i need; which i am sure will change and grow as i do: but i am lucky.
i feel i have a champion by my side who reminds me that i am a deserving person.
just looking at him, i know what is good. just being with him, i know what i need. and having him as my husband, gives me the courage to go out there: be brave, and find myself.

{empowered}

what do you do when things suck?
well today i had a little cry on the kitchen floor.
there is nothing worse than feeling powerless.
and for a few hours today that’s exactly what i felt:
and it sucked.

after wallowing for some time and actually, not until the moment i sat down to blog about my misery, did i remember something that had the potential to lift me from the doldrums...
a vague memory of these big ideas i get each day....
this one was all about tony robbin’s concept that ‘to think’ is really ‘to question’ and basically we go through life continually asking and answering questions within ourselves.
looking at how i was feeling today, i can see now how very true that is and how the questions i was choosing to ask (and answer) only served to reinforce my despair: what did i do wrong? why i did wrong? how i did wrong? it was all about the negatives. the if onlys. the bad me. the poor me. pretty disempowering stuff eh?

and so of course the effervescent tony’s answer to this: ask yourself better questions!
of course. how ridiculously simple is that?
but it’s true. and i did. and suddenly...

banish those blues!
what happened today was bad. but it’s happened.
dwelling, focussing and reliving it, serves no purpose.
instead i will chose to ask myself what have i learned from this experience? what has this taught me? and most importantly, what do i intend to do about it?
it’s amazing how much more fun and uplifting it is planning something empowering!

and so that’s exactly what i have done. and it feels great.
i feel i have turned the situation around and made it work for me as opposed to against me.
sure, it doesn’t change the reality: but i’ve changed my perspective.

{leap}

i am about to start the artist’s way again and i approach this journey with an equal measurement of excitement and trepidation.

i am always excited starting something new. i think that is part of my problem! i love the initial euphoria, the anticipation... i used to love the beginning of the new school year: relishing the days leading up to it buying my new pencil case, folder, notebooks – all the trappings i felt would pave the way to make THIS the year for me: THIS is the year i excel. THIS is the year i get straight As. THIS is the year my parents will rejoice in the genius of their child... well i guess i was an optimist if nothing else! or would that be fantasist?

and so it has been the same with my journey on the artist’s way. each time i pick up the book, i buy myself a sparkling new journal. I test 100 pens to make sure i have one that feels {right} after all i may well be penning my first novel with it! i count down the dates in my calendar, marking this momentous occasion...then the day comes:

and i am lucky if i get myself to wake up that half an hour earlier to complete my morning pages! and even if i didn’t give up there and then: 6 days later panic strikes when i realise that i completely forgot about the artists date and the additional tasks! and pretty much within the month... the artist’s way? oh yeah, i’m planning to do that soon...

so here i am again. my classy (new) matte black journal sits there alluringly. my well thumbed book ready. and i am genuinely excited.

but there is one distinct difference this time. this time i am doing this as part of a community. actually i am co-hosting the community. crazy? uh-huh. in fact i am nothing short of terrified. because this gives me nowhere to hide. i can’t be the quiet one sitting in the back of the classroom just observing and letting everyone else do the work anymore. i can’t be shy and awkward about putting myself out there. i can’t pretend to be unsure about what i am doing. nor can i pretend to know it all. but most of all~ i can’t just forget about it.

i have a commitment to make now: not just to myself, but to a dozen other people who have taken the time to join me on this experience. giving up is not an option this time.

already i feel a sense of change. the programme hasn’t even started and i am already taking a leap of faith: in myself and in creativity. i am trusting if i jump, the net will appear.

yes, THIS time i will succeed.

{to an absent friend}

today my mother got in touch with a friend she hasn't spoken to in over 7 years. and it made me think of you. they stopped speaking after an argument all that time ago and realised today how much they had missed each other. i wonder if you ever miss me? i know for a long time i grieved our friendship. i still do sometimes. i have moments of longing, as i've never found the same connection with anyone else since. and i miss that. i miss you.

i sat here tonight, contemplating writing to you, and wondered what i would say. i wondered whether we would ever get over the hurt we caused each other. would we talk about it? should we talk about it? why didn't we talk about it?

i wondered whether i could genuinely ever forgive you for not reaching out to me when my father died. why you couldn't put our petty differences aside to let me know that you were thinking of me at a time i so desperately needed a real friend. i wondered if that meant you were never real.

i wondered whether i actually missed you, or if instead i missed what i thought we had. i wondered what exactly did we have that could be so easily shattered and irrevocably broken?

i made instant coffee for the first time in a long time tonight. and it made me think of you. you always told me i made the best coffee. but then in the later years of our friendship, you moved on to the healthier option of roobosh tea - maybe our friendship got left behind then? maybe it was over before it actually ended. like a lot of relationships: maybe we were already holding onto the threads of what it once was.

you were the best friend anyone could have wanted when i was lost and insecure. you were my anchor. my safe harbour for many years. you were my sanity. my comforter. i will never forget that and i will be eternally grateful for those years when you were so much more than a friend. you were my family.

even when i found my own feet and later my husband, you were there. i will never forget how you and your husband helped make cam's first date to oxford so memorable. how you helped me light the hundred candles in my flat and how your husband dressed up to play chauffeur and pick cam from the train station on what was your anniversary. i will never forget coming home after our wedding and finding rose petals scattered all around the house and a beautiful note welcoming us as a married couple. you were the only person i cried about leaving behind when we went on our extended honeymoon. and you were the first person i wanted to see when we got home...

so where did it all go wrong? time has clouded both my judgement and my memory. i attempted re-reading some of the emails we exchanged in the dying days of our friendship but they seemed trivial and petty. i couldn't really believe all that was washed away on the basis of some thoughtless words.

but the reality shows that it was. is friendship really so fragile? so delicate that a few careless words can unravel years of time, emotion and love? or was it just ours? i'm still not convinced. i still want to believe it was because of what wasn't said. because what was said doesn't seem important enough to have carried the weight of all that it took with it. and so maybe that is what i would ask you. why did you really walk away from us? was our friendship really so worthless, that you couldn't be bothered to stay and fight it out?

but i won't send this email or write this letter because i don't know if there is the strength in my heart. i don't know if i can cope with your vitriolic judgement or worse yet, your rejection if you don't even bother to respond. and what if you do? then i don't know if i can cope with what that might carry with it. maybe the wound hasn't healed. or maybe it has healed too completely. maybe i just wanted you to know that i do remember the best of you. and occasionally, just occasionally now, there are days like today when i still think of you.

{bird on my shoulder}

today is truly the first day of the rest of my life.
and i thought i would feel different: i thought i would be skipping through the streets, hugging strangers, exclaiming loudly the wonderful virtues of life... instead, as i walked down the corridors of the hospital, i felt myself having to fight back the tears that were threatening to fall through.

it was a confused and complicated mixture of both sadness and joy. something i am still struggling to decipher now. suffice to say, i was not the elated bunny i had visualised, but instead a deeper, stronger emotion took over...

i went for a mammogram today.
the months/weeks/days leading up to this have been quietly torturous. not wanting to worry those i love, or fuel my own anxieties, i had some lonely moments where awful and fearful thoughts would consume me. even though the doctor had said she wasn't overly concerned, even though i am all about practicising positive thinking and visualisation: there was no escaping that breast cancer is a number one killer. it is something serious and real. and indiscriminate. and that i, like any other woman, was not immune to it.

ironically those dark thoughts were the same ones that opened my eyes to a whole new way of being. the fear lit a light: made me see what it was i feared losing. and it wasn't the bottom line in my bank account or my job description. it wasn't the perfect body or my dream home. in fact it wasn't anything i can really describe...

but it is the essence of my life. everything that makes me get up each morning and thank the Universe for another chance to experience this magic. it is understanding that each moment i have to share with my husband is precious. it is being aware each interaction i have with someone is meaningful. and it is knowing how every minute i choose to spend my time is important. because it is all i have. tomorrow is a luxury we cannot bank on.

i read somewhere that buddhist monks wake up each morning to an imaginary bird on their shoulder who reminds them of their mortality, asking: "is today the day that I die? am i ready? am i living the life i want to live? am i being the person i want to be?" it may sound a little morbid, but for me it was this awareness of death that made me truly start living. and i am thankful beyond words that i have another day to put it to good practice.

{gratitude}

i am blessed.

each morning i wake up, i feel lucky to be alive.

i feel lucky i am healthy.
i feel lucky when i look at the man who lies beside me.
i feel lucky when jake whimpers at the door, eager to come in and greet me good morning.
i feel lucky when cujo rolls over and asks me to stroke his belly.
i feel lucky i have another day to build a relationship with my mother.
i feel lucky i have a job that can make a difference to someones life.
i feel lucky i have friends who remind me of what is important.
i feel lucky i have the opportunity to experience a new day.

i am grateful for this amazing gift i am given each and every day.