...do more than exist, live...live, love, and enjoy life

Sunday, 9 October 2016

A Message for My Dear.

I am enjoying making my own graphics 

I see you today, you stand amidst the crowd, surrounded by all these noises, and each of them is trying to feed you with their poison words. You stand leaning into that rack, where beauty magazines tumble off a bit too fast. You're perusing the pages, and they are speaking to you, you're assessing the feeds of your social sites and they are getting to you...

I want to say that looks don't matter, and yes I know, that it then sounds like I'm spouting encouraging cliches.
It's a messed up world you see, where the things that really matter are approached half-heartedly, yet people spend so much time fussing over things that actually don't matter.

Hear me here dear, forget the stereotypes, and consider the offer for emancipation.

You are a sprouting budding flower...but you have long stopped believing in that.

I see you daily standing en face of the mirror; and kilos seems to bother you, the wrinkles too, the bulging mid-section as well, and the fading light in your eyes, the frame of your body too, it just doesn’t sit right…

You are not a trophy dear, you are a soul.

Hear me here dear, choose the indie way, consider the gift of emancipation.

Beauty is not the frame of your face or the swing of your hips, it’s not the perfection of your skin or the worth of your wear, it’s not the number of the stares, accolades, beholders that you snare, it’s the openness of your heart that makes you beautiful.

Hear me here dear, you are not missing out by choosing emancipation.

There is so much advice out here on how to cream away imperfection, and tuck that skin until it is firm. How to shake what momma gave you, and make it appealing. There are so many women out here who know how to make their hair, and dress their bodies, but very few who know how to do hard and holy things...
...very few who care about using their hands to help humanity, who want to stretch their arms to lift a sister up, who will choose the difficult, broken and given way, the indie way that requires learning how to be a shade over someone else’s storm... a life of giving even of one's self.

Beauty is about the openness of your heart dear, you can beat the conventional ideas of beauty and acceptance. There is freedom in authenticity, in being your true self, in relishing this moment of glory, the glory of a beautiful soul.

In whom, or in what have you placed your identity? For the truth dear, is that there is a message to be said to you, and through you.

You were already approved. A very long time ago?

You were approved…

So there’s nothing more to prove.

This world needs to be done with seeing people as skin, instead of souls, but while it still learns to do that, I want you to know that God alone has the authority to determine your worth, your price, your dignity…acceptability. Please don’t give that authority to anyone else? Don’t let anyone else give you your identity.

When the music fades…when it stops all together…and all the flashlights flicker, when they go off. This can be said of you, “she let me write my story through her.” Stay in God’s story dear, stay in His story.

I know you struggle a lot with the insecurities, and the lies…I know because I too have been the one leaning into the mirror with all these questions.

But I see you today, and I know in my heart, without a shadow of a doubt, that you belong here…see how you belong. There’s a place just for you.

Hear me here today dear, forget the stereotypes, you are a soul, not a trophy to be won.

A time is coming dear, when the stars, how bright they shine, the canary and the swan, how gracefully they walk, the tulips and the yellow daffodils, how pretty they are? A time is coming when all these shall be darkened; the beauty of these things shall be lost to your eye by impaired vision.

A time is coming dear when your strong feet and knees shall give in and bow themselves in graceful surrender, and your grinders, your molar teeth, shall cease to grind because just a few will remain strong and standing.

That time, is coming dear.

But despite all the cycles of womanhood that you shall go through? In your skin can be a comfortable place to live in...it is the only place, the only home you know, and you have lived in.

The conventional ideas of beauty and acceptance are a folly. So yes, looks don't matter it's about the openness of your heart. 

***This topic has been on my mind  for a while. I wondered if I'd get the right words to express what was in my heart. I have felt for a while that it's a message that needs (really, really needs) to be passed across.
Still thinking deeply about Ragini Zutshi Anand's poem (thank you so much for such beautiful words Ragini! ). Please find time to follow the link and read it...it's very, short, I promise...but truly profound!
Our world today is messed up, but I hope that every single day you will wake up and remember who and whose you are.
Thanks for taking the time to stop by and read. Much appreciated.***

Tuesday, 4 October 2016

The Dying Woman; Thoughts of a Beautiful Soul.

Still for the love of paintings Image via Etsy

I open my eyes and they are all standing over me, they are all staring down at me.

Their faces are tired and worried, hopeful but scared.

I want to get out of this body, even if it's just for one second, so I'd see what they see, and feel what they feel; these persons that I have loved so deeply, for way too long.

My soul is in chaos and my mind is all over the place.

My body chooses to be uncooperative...I know I am dying.

Death? Conversing, dancing and dining with death for a while. That has been my experience, and the feeling honestly...

...the feeling has been undesirable.

I am like a child: dependent...vulnerable...supported. Supported to live!

But how did I get to this place?

My soul is tired, my hands are tired, and my body is failing. I know I'm dying.

The life of a child? It's completely devoid of self-sufficiency.

Dependency you see, puts you in a position of vulnerability; but this is my life right now. I am like a child: unable to feed myself, to clean myself, to walk, or talk, or sit up by myself...

I am like a child: dependent...vulnerable.

Such thoughts often bring tears to my eyes, and as the tears flow, I have no control on that. I can't make them stop. They flow freely: I am no longer my own. My body you see, no longer obeys me...

Where is the strength therefore in resilience?

Where is the beauty in a need for life?

Is there strength, in living this life, aware of the maddening reality of my proximity to the finish line?

Where is the strength in that knowledge?

Please...someone? anyone? Help me see the strength in that knowledge.

A need for life, a need to be alive, a need to feel, to see...to heal.

A need to heal? There I said it! As I lay on this bed today, in me there's a need to heal.

All my life I have always been showered with accolades. People took so much pride in celebrating, embracing, and honouring births: professional births, intellectual births, material births...

Glasses clung, people cheered, new life celebrated. Cheers to progress!

I wondered today though, as I lay on my bed, why do we approach half-heartedly, the idea of mourning, pondering over, and speaking out against deaths and abortions?

Death of lives that would have been lived to maturity, abortion of dreams and hopes that have been nursed for quite a while, death of joy and peace of mind...death of sanity and the beauty of health?

Why do we shy away from speaking about the pain of loss? Shy away from giving room to break, to vent, to cry, over what has been lost? Yet loss is inevitably painful?

I mourn today, over what I could have...I should have been, but would never be.

With every passing day, I am just a shadow of what I used to be.

If beauty was my smile, or my eyes...

If beauty was my shape, or my high cheek-bones...

If beauty was my hair, or in my stride...

If beauty was my thriving skin, or my complexion...

I reckon today that I just joined a different category.

But beauty must be something deeper...I think to myself as I look into the faces staring down at me.

What is going on in their minds? I wonder.

What is going on in my mind...I know they are wondering too.

Love is showered on me.

My dying hands are held,

My swollen feet are soothed,

My flowing tears are wiped,

My aching joints caressed,

My cracking lips are oiled,

My ailing body is fed,

My lonely fears are filled, pushed away by a relentless presence of love.
I am a dying woman. A dying woman who is loved deeply.
 
I have wondered too often about the epitaph...what would be engraved on it.

In the company of the dead, there would be no thoughts to think, no crowd to please, no life to live, but I am ready to lay down my life.

Has it been a life well lived?

I often say my prayers, I know that I am always heard.

At this point prayer is a work of humility: acknowledging that every painful breath is a gift, entrusting the hearts of those I love to Him who is able to heal and keep them steady when I 'm gone, entrusting my soul to He who first gave me life...

I am at peace with knowing that there exists a place that's free from pain, sickness, weakness, and brokenness.

I am a dying woman. A dying woman who is loved deeply.



***October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, an international, annual campaign to increase awareness of the disease. 
I wrote today this story of fiction, to honour, celebrate, and remember a soul of a person that was loved deeply. A person who lost her life to breast cancer...I honour her life that was well lived, and her resilience through her sickness, and the good legacy that she left behind. 
I mourn as well over  other lives that have been lost to cancer, as I celebrate the survivors, and celebrate every effort that is put this month, and every other month toward creating awareness about cancer. 
Thanks for stopping by to read...if you haven't already, see this, and this related posts.***



Saturday, 1 October 2016

My Short, Little Parable (Fiction)

I present to you one more reason to love paintings 

He stood there for a while trying to decide maybe, whether to follow or not. This was a new world that he’d be venturing into you know, an unfamiliar territory.

The demarcation was clear you see; my world and his…they were two distinct opposites…

If that moment could be described in colours, it would be green. Not a green that suggests readiness; readiness to go and become. Not a green either that describes health; health, prosperity and growth; but a green that was pale and rotting. That green that had once been thriving, vibrant, active, but had been set aside for way too long, that it accumulated mildew, fungi and mosses; the perfect combo, the perfect cocktail of filth!

That moment would be as disturbing as a grotesque stew. You know that stew that is usually sticky and frumpy? Thick and mushy? So thick you wouldn’t know what it was initially made of? So disturbing you’d probably throw a first glance then look away with that useless wish to retract your action?

This moment was like the green of that stew. A shade that was a little bit of every colour; so overwhelmed with becoming every other thing but itself. It sat in an old pot. A stew disgusting and grotesque. A stew long forgotten…

Here’s my story;

I hardly remember anything except for that part where he was chasing, screaming, and begging…he did all that in one breath.

See, I’ve always been a fiendishly frugal human being, especially where my space is concerned; do not invade my personal space, and I shall be careful enough to keep my nose out of your affairs, my hands of your belongings, and my presence off your personal space. Preach the gospel of karma; blend it in as well with reciprocity, I expected the same from him.The frustration was so real therefore; a stranger was all close up on my heel.

I stood across and watched. I had this look of intrigue…would he pursue, or would he stop there.

Would he step out of his perfect, organized world...into the darkness of my messy world.

He the gentleman, I the dirty little rascal…

He from the uptown, I from downtown…

He was robbed, I was tattered…

This you see, was the end of the road. That place of choice, backed into a corner and forced to make a choice; backed into a corner, between a rock and a hard place.

To be, or not to be…to be, or not to be…to be, or not to be…his heart was racing.

I was watching…my pair of eyes peered from under the cover of the dark. I stood amidst the shackland. The houses were squashed and messy, they oozed into each other, breathed into each other’s space. The roads were mucky and slippery, the beginning of them, oh so clear…the end though was un-retrievable. They fed into each other, bumped into each other…the roads in the shackland. This was my side of the world.

To be or not to be…to be or not to be…to be or not to be…his heart was racing.

Stepping out of one’s comfort zone, into a realm of the unknown; unknown? Was this side of the world unknown to him?

I rest my case today. My short little parable. 