It has been a while since I shared a few thoughts. And as my lamps constantly remind me, there is under the spatterings of normality and the layers of post-travel dust, at least some rhyme and reason to this journey. It was also blissfully wholesome to NOT be self-absorbed and distracted, and I must admit Women's month was the perfect antidote to my business as usual diva-esque behaviour.
Being asked to present to some phenomenal women a few weeks ago, it was really powerful and insightful to find that I was more energised and inspired by women who had been through so much - REALLY!!!! Here I was with my deranged-on-account-of-stylist-being-out-of town and howling at the moon because the prayers and fasting week didn't produce much results largely (no pun intended) due to the fact that I was praying so hard for the fast to be over and that restitution came in large bouts of euphoria and even larger bowls of pasta. Here were women who survived violence. Not of the last day of the 75% less sale, but at the hands of the men they loved and despite the odds walk with dignity, spreading the word of courage and encouragement. Young women who have had to make real life-altering decisions, whether to raise their own children or to give them up. Women living positively, fearlessly and with no hangups.
I hung up my suspenders and for a mini-break suspended my issues, revelling in the true power of what it means to be a woman and to be the change I want to see and feel in the world. It was great to trade the I and ME for the US and WE, and to feel the tension of healthy compromise and value creation.
I had been ill for so long that my organs were not even making an effort. My mind needed to meet me half-way. Between the antibiotics and the antipasti I found a quiet place where my faith and love was restored.
We do have the power to change the world, one small 'Thank-you' and 'I Love You' at a time. Appreciate all you have and praise God for all the great women in your life!
I do!
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Monday, 20 June 2011
A LAMP CALLED REVENGE
There comes a time in every woman's life when she instinctively, and against a strong research base, KNOWS that there painkillers in the world that parade as other forms: Designer heels, cashmere, unscrupulous divorce lawyers, bonzai, jewellery, the list is endless ...
Mine came as a magic lamp. Well, two in fact. Red, mosaic, hand-crafted, arty and rich, creating an ambience of mystery and romance. By all accounts Bitter Irony as the romance kinda ended when I realised that sadly, Pierre is one of the The Others.
Playing the field with reckless abandon with whomever happened to be crossing the field at that time. And so one may wonder how he got to be soooooooooo talented and soooooooooooooo charming and so one-of-the-girls in a very masculine way. And the answer to that, such as with many other things in life is: Dedication and Practice! He has been around the block. In fact, I suspect he owns the block. He's certainly been in every unit on every kitchen counter in every position. Making the naked chef look like an amateur.
I am not trying to reconcile his ability to make me feel like the only woman in his life whilst trying to make my budget balance. I am happier instead to christen my magic lanterns - Rhyme and Reason - and to rationalise their existence every time I think of the cost. Opportunity cost - I mean they really make divorce look Runway Hot or is it a sunken cost as I recall the times I had to go down to hitherto unexplored depths ... or is it simply an investment in ME? That thought immediately catapults me into crazy, euphoric antihistamine bliss. I feel light. I am light and the congestion is all gone.
So I've never been too big on social network sites and could do without the constant logging in, anticipating that someone, somewhere has reached out to me .... but I thank all the e-Gods that made me log into Facebook on Saturday morning to access Pierre and in scrolling down, whilst matching bedcovers to bed runners (irony was beyond me at that time) and then in an instant it felt as if everything was happening in slow motion. I read and re-read the In a Relationship with ... part and tried with as much pre-menstrual restraint and logic as I could muster to not scream or laugh or curse whilst brides-to-be were eagerly finalising their registries! I double-checked the details in case I dispatched the assassins to the wrong address, and then calmly replaced the bed runner where I had found it. With pure cougar wisdom, I realised that without jumping (or pumping) any guns it would also help that I not be the one to lay Pierre gently down onto a bed or a slab into the near future. For that we have trained medical personnel and formaldehyde ...
But I also realised in that moment that of all the options to action (maim, kill, deceive, suffocate, beg, restrain and interview) all I really wanted to do was walk away. I just felt that if anyone was going to be a cheat and a liar, it could by rights be anyone but Pierre. Everyone was allowed at least one transgression in my book, but he was precluded. I wanted him to be the friend, companion, lover, wardrobe coordinator, domestic so-and-so toolbelt bearing demi-god and not one of Them. And I allowed myself for the briefest of minutes as I waited for the electronic queue manager to direct me to 'Teller 4 to the right' to feel really stupid and girlish and violated and badly in need of truth. And therein was the suspense because as he uhmm'd and oh well'd I saw my resurrection and restitution in the old sage: pure, unadulterated retail therapy. I felt that tingle as my extension was massaged ...swiping never felt that good. I languidly stroked the pin-pad as I surrendered my password and in a moment whilst those rubber numbers opened up under my nails that I was cheating. That I was open to any number of possibilities. And at short notice I tell you. I did not want to go out and drink cocktails I could not pronounce from glasses that reminded me of small intimate island getaways. I did not want to call an urgent and desperate caucus with the girls to share horror boy stories of the Wrong Turn and Hostel variation. I wanted to wonder anonymously from one designer location to another, gently rubbing, prodding and eventually offering up my pin as my trolley filled up and Miguel needed to be on stand-by to carry off all my Phoenix (watch the dog burn) purchases.
I sent him a congratulatory SMS which I admit was a tad Disney, but I needed to let him know that I know and stood with the Persian rug salesman holding my hand as I listened to Pierre telling me that yes, indeed she is hot, but when will I be able to see him!!!!!!?????? In a blind rage or through all this red I wondered!!!????? Or through a sniper rifle?? Just checking....
Anyhoo, I have to go. The delivery guy has just called ...
Life Lesson: Love and Live Fabulously. Don't take it personally and don't expect people to do what you want or need them to do. Everyone is merely doing their level best. Whether or not I am ready to be one of Pierre's friends or just someone to hang around out with (get thee hence image of executor) I cannot say. All I know is that there is no rhyme nor reason to much about love, but it is greater than all of us, and that it was here before we arrived and exists beyond the grave ... so let's not sweat the small things!
And through this revelation, I have walked from the darkness of deception into the most marvellous red light(s) ...
Mine came as a magic lamp. Well, two in fact. Red, mosaic, hand-crafted, arty and rich, creating an ambience of mystery and romance. By all accounts Bitter Irony as the romance kinda ended when I realised that sadly, Pierre is one of the The Others.
Playing the field with reckless abandon with whomever happened to be crossing the field at that time. And so one may wonder how he got to be soooooooooo talented and soooooooooooooo charming and so one-of-the-girls in a very masculine way. And the answer to that, such as with many other things in life is: Dedication and Practice! He has been around the block. In fact, I suspect he owns the block. He's certainly been in every unit on every kitchen counter in every position. Making the naked chef look like an amateur.
I am not trying to reconcile his ability to make me feel like the only woman in his life whilst trying to make my budget balance. I am happier instead to christen my magic lanterns - Rhyme and Reason - and to rationalise their existence every time I think of the cost. Opportunity cost - I mean they really make divorce look Runway Hot or is it a sunken cost as I recall the times I had to go down to hitherto unexplored depths ... or is it simply an investment in ME? That thought immediately catapults me into crazy, euphoric antihistamine bliss. I feel light. I am light and the congestion is all gone.
So I've never been too big on social network sites and could do without the constant logging in, anticipating that someone, somewhere has reached out to me .... but I thank all the e-Gods that made me log into Facebook on Saturday morning to access Pierre and in scrolling down, whilst matching bedcovers to bed runners (irony was beyond me at that time) and then in an instant it felt as if everything was happening in slow motion. I read and re-read the In a Relationship with ... part and tried with as much pre-menstrual restraint and logic as I could muster to not scream or laugh or curse whilst brides-to-be were eagerly finalising their registries! I double-checked the details in case I dispatched the assassins to the wrong address, and then calmly replaced the bed runner where I had found it. With pure cougar wisdom, I realised that without jumping (or pumping) any guns it would also help that I not be the one to lay Pierre gently down onto a bed or a slab into the near future. For that we have trained medical personnel and formaldehyde ...
But I also realised in that moment that of all the options to action (maim, kill, deceive, suffocate, beg, restrain and interview) all I really wanted to do was walk away. I just felt that if anyone was going to be a cheat and a liar, it could by rights be anyone but Pierre. Everyone was allowed at least one transgression in my book, but he was precluded. I wanted him to be the friend, companion, lover, wardrobe coordinator, domestic so-and-so toolbelt bearing demi-god and not one of Them. And I allowed myself for the briefest of minutes as I waited for the electronic queue manager to direct me to 'Teller 4 to the right' to feel really stupid and girlish and violated and badly in need of truth. And therein was the suspense because as he uhmm'd and oh well'd I saw my resurrection and restitution in the old sage: pure, unadulterated retail therapy. I felt that tingle as my extension was massaged ...swiping never felt that good. I languidly stroked the pin-pad as I surrendered my password and in a moment whilst those rubber numbers opened up under my nails that I was cheating. That I was open to any number of possibilities. And at short notice I tell you. I did not want to go out and drink cocktails I could not pronounce from glasses that reminded me of small intimate island getaways. I did not want to call an urgent and desperate caucus with the girls to share horror boy stories of the Wrong Turn and Hostel variation. I wanted to wonder anonymously from one designer location to another, gently rubbing, prodding and eventually offering up my pin as my trolley filled up and Miguel needed to be on stand-by to carry off all my Phoenix (watch the dog burn) purchases.
I sent him a congratulatory SMS which I admit was a tad Disney, but I needed to let him know that I know and stood with the Persian rug salesman holding my hand as I listened to Pierre telling me that yes, indeed she is hot, but when will I be able to see him!!!!!!?????? In a blind rage or through all this red I wondered!!!????? Or through a sniper rifle?? Just checking....
Anyhoo, I have to go. The delivery guy has just called ...
Life Lesson: Love and Live Fabulously. Don't take it personally and don't expect people to do what you want or need them to do. Everyone is merely doing their level best. Whether or not I am ready to be one of Pierre's friends or just someone to hang around out with (get thee hence image of executor) I cannot say. All I know is that there is no rhyme nor reason to much about love, but it is greater than all of us, and that it was here before we arrived and exists beyond the grave ... so let's not sweat the small things!
And through this revelation, I have walked from the darkness of deception into the most marvellous red light(s) ...
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
EXTREME MAKE-OVER
So I've added to my EasyAccess-Feel-Good list the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition series. It is one of the few programmes that I can watch for hours, re-runs and all and still feel completely inspired and at home, no pun intended. And Pierre would often find me sobbing uncontrollably, consolation beyond even the Haagen Daz as I feel the love and support of strangers reaching out to the destitute. Strangers in blue overalls I tell you! With picks, axes, spades and power-tools not intent on violence or destruction. Only in that moment does wallpaper, ceramics and Italian sanitaryware really look great inside a cardboard box! And last month when I stood in front of the mirror and realised that my detox had in fact Not gone as well as I would've liked or that a reduction in more ample parts was still under construction, only they could help me say: Bus Driver, move that bus!
I think of all the things that need renovation in my life, and whilst I've been told more than once, in varying tone and states of undress, that my staircase does not need human intervention, I cannot but be inspired. A change is as good as a holiday, but Pierre advises that the fare in the local psych high care facility was not much to write home about, even if it is a brand new home with a spiral staircase that costs enough to feed the extended families the building crew for at least a year!
And whilst I haven't managed to convince him of many things, I have found a new vocabulary of opportunity. So Under Construction remains roadworthy for all manner of issues related to To Do or Die lists, Wellness Plans and approach to creepy stakeholders and literature reviews. Everything needs a Project Plan and for hectic weekends, Floor Plans. PMS hormonal ebb and tide has strategically and within budget, been reframed to highlight Scope, range and Customisation of Product.
Dramatic outbursts contrasted with smooth, delectable ice-cream may now on a solid foundation, co-exist for the betterment of the community and love and perseverence will never look the same again.
It inspires me to know that all is not lost, and that from nothing comes something so infinitely large and solid. The direct link to small high caloric portions resulting in the same is not lost upon me. In fact, loss related to scales remain Under Construction for imminent future. And I could go on and on about bony, skinny nymphs cleaning up the buffet at the office party and still looking good to go in 20 knots of island wind, but the scales of justice I've decided are Under Construction too!
Anyhoo, I have to carry on and spring clean and renovate, and instal more vents to let the good stuff in and the toxic stuff out. My neighbours have wind-chimes and that sound helps me to coordinate my wardrobe without even getting up. I have a mantle-piece to remind me that Santa has never counted points, eaten for his blood type or briskly walked the reindeer and still fits through the chimney! Ever year since before self-help! What a gift!
So every time I come into the bedroom and consider my ample everything, smooth wooden floors, firm and functional headboard, pack-horse pedestals and tool-belt bearing Pierre, all I can say is Oh My G---!
I think of all the things that need renovation in my life, and whilst I've been told more than once, in varying tone and states of undress, that my staircase does not need human intervention, I cannot but be inspired. A change is as good as a holiday, but Pierre advises that the fare in the local psych high care facility was not much to write home about, even if it is a brand new home with a spiral staircase that costs enough to feed the extended families the building crew for at least a year!
And whilst I haven't managed to convince him of many things, I have found a new vocabulary of opportunity. So Under Construction remains roadworthy for all manner of issues related to To Do or Die lists, Wellness Plans and approach to creepy stakeholders and literature reviews. Everything needs a Project Plan and for hectic weekends, Floor Plans. PMS hormonal ebb and tide has strategically and within budget, been reframed to highlight Scope, range and Customisation of Product.
Dramatic outbursts contrasted with smooth, delectable ice-cream may now on a solid foundation, co-exist for the betterment of the community and love and perseverence will never look the same again.
It inspires me to know that all is not lost, and that from nothing comes something so infinitely large and solid. The direct link to small high caloric portions resulting in the same is not lost upon me. In fact, loss related to scales remain Under Construction for imminent future. And I could go on and on about bony, skinny nymphs cleaning up the buffet at the office party and still looking good to go in 20 knots of island wind, but the scales of justice I've decided are Under Construction too!
Anyhoo, I have to carry on and spring clean and renovate, and instal more vents to let the good stuff in and the toxic stuff out. My neighbours have wind-chimes and that sound helps me to coordinate my wardrobe without even getting up. I have a mantle-piece to remind me that Santa has never counted points, eaten for his blood type or briskly walked the reindeer and still fits through the chimney! Ever year since before self-help! What a gift!
So every time I come into the bedroom and consider my ample everything, smooth wooden floors, firm and functional headboard, pack-horse pedestals and tool-belt bearing Pierre, all I can say is Oh My G---!
Friday, 6 May 2011
MORE WITH LESS
Culture and society dictates at that a certain point, age, stage, size or level one should be acting in a certain way.
At my age, I should be more serious and have many things bedded down in my life (sexy, talented others inadmissable from Maturity List of course). Status should be on the up and up, and not necessarily "Deliriously Happy"on Facebook or UVFO (Unidentified Very F-ble Object) discovered under coffee table after Ladies Night.
Being of sound and desperate breeding and socialisation, I actually managed to tick off quite a few items on the All Grown Up list and then felt incredibly tired. It was always getting and doing more (instead of being more). There was always another peg on another pole and something more desirable and fashionistic which was an absolute Have to Have. But flushworthy that train of thought as I am reminded by the small, but powerful moments that Less is indeed More.
For instance, all the people stuff I've studied and wrestled with for most of my adult life are nothing in the face of Pierre teaching me Logic and unhormonal reason when I am completely Diva-esque. When my assumptions are neutralised and when a smile, nod or frown undoes my complete-but-faulty thesis on What Men Really Want when the Final is on. Choosing, deliberating and begging the gods of Illusion for an outfit from a heap of possibilities effortlessly negated by a simple: Why are we dressing for bed anyway? So there are letters that define an entire wardrobe and couture is instantly minimalistic without losing the heat. T- and G- strings are but mere samples of the new and improved au naturelle range.
Doing more physical activity means less time to fight with fridge and scale and eating is so last season when you're nibbling and scratching the surfaces of other more meaningful things.
Less stress too as Pierre knows within moments what he wants to do, how badly, how many times and with how little post-performance analysis. Sport, food, cars, his mom, his friends, me, me, me - a simple enough equation. And as soon as I need to "pick his brain" and "sound things off" I see the donut glaze and the boy-meets-Others shutters come down so I also spend a few more moments on the JOY in the moment, and less on the history and the foreboding of the headlights / tunnel lights or whatever reality light fixtures are available.
Which reminds me: I need to retrieve one of my short-but-sweet clothing items from the chandelier. Oops ...
At my age, I should be more serious and have many things bedded down in my life (sexy, talented others inadmissable from Maturity List of course). Status should be on the up and up, and not necessarily "Deliriously Happy"on Facebook or UVFO (Unidentified Very F-ble Object) discovered under coffee table after Ladies Night.
Being of sound and desperate breeding and socialisation, I actually managed to tick off quite a few items on the All Grown Up list and then felt incredibly tired. It was always getting and doing more (instead of being more). There was always another peg on another pole and something more desirable and fashionistic which was an absolute Have to Have. But flushworthy that train of thought as I am reminded by the small, but powerful moments that Less is indeed More.
For instance, all the people stuff I've studied and wrestled with for most of my adult life are nothing in the face of Pierre teaching me Logic and unhormonal reason when I am completely Diva-esque. When my assumptions are neutralised and when a smile, nod or frown undoes my complete-but-faulty thesis on What Men Really Want when the Final is on. Choosing, deliberating and begging the gods of Illusion for an outfit from a heap of possibilities effortlessly negated by a simple: Why are we dressing for bed anyway? So there are letters that define an entire wardrobe and couture is instantly minimalistic without losing the heat. T- and G- strings are but mere samples of the new and improved au naturelle range.
Doing more physical activity means less time to fight with fridge and scale and eating is so last season when you're nibbling and scratching the surfaces of other more meaningful things.
Less stress too as Pierre knows within moments what he wants to do, how badly, how many times and with how little post-performance analysis. Sport, food, cars, his mom, his friends, me, me, me - a simple enough equation. And as soon as I need to "pick his brain" and "sound things off" I see the donut glaze and the boy-meets-Others shutters come down so I also spend a few more moments on the JOY in the moment, and less on the history and the foreboding of the headlights / tunnel lights or whatever reality light fixtures are available.
Which reminds me: I need to retrieve one of my short-but-sweet clothing items from the chandelier. Oops ...
Friday, 29 April 2011
JOY COMES IN THE MORNING
So I may declare that it is indeed true. Just when you submit and get closure and with fake bravery throw in that white thousand threadcount something, someone high up in the universe is having a good day and chucks you a favour. And in true the-gods-must-be-crazy fashion, it's not as random or far-fetched or poor administration related either. It is spot on and in the 'more than I could ever have imagined' cliche filing pile.
Like meeting Pierre the other day. I mean I'd met him a few times and he was always helpful and kind with a killer smile. I mean of the slow death, starting with the weakening of the knees and moistening of other parts variety. Extremely polite and suave, with something courageous and gentle and intelligent and determined and owning-me-without-buying-me Gorgeous. Anyhoo, back to the point. And allow me to say that even as I am reconfiguring my thoughts, I am not ignorant to the chick flick Thurday appeal of this here testimony. But true to the gods I will speak it as I see it and feel it and feel it and ... until the sun comes up.
So with my history of sordid relationships with a Trey bearing all manner of poison and an unburied hatchet between Magnet and Goalie, I was well past my rehabilitation phase as regards matters of the heart and other things that weigh upon one's well-being. But Pierre moves from a different frame of reference and is oblivious to most of the elements that freak me out and cause me to desperately over-analyse lots of things. He is confident and strong enough to be honest and blunt and unself-conscious and just plain REAL about loads of things that guys his age and planet are still battling with. He speaks with wisdom and insight and sensitvity without plakking it on too thick or trying to impress. (The impressions made on my spine and window-seat notwithstanding). No talk about happily ever after and respecting anyone in the morning and none of the hero-worshipping that invariably turns out to be Phase I of the hit-and-run power plays many of the same are accustomed to. He has learnt fast and hard that it is all about ME, ME, ME (quick tutorial from gardener helped immeasurably), but he lives it rather than says it. He makes me laugh and sing ... OPERA ...in the kitchen nogal ... and doesn't talk about my battle (ageing) scars and accepts that the lights are often off cos Eskom can be a killer with their mis-billing and not for any other reason. And when the lights are on, it's all good too.
Like meeting Pierre the other day. I mean I'd met him a few times and he was always helpful and kind with a killer smile. I mean of the slow death, starting with the weakening of the knees and moistening of other parts variety. Extremely polite and suave, with something courageous and gentle and intelligent and determined and owning-me-without-buying-me Gorgeous. Anyhoo, back to the point. And allow me to say that even as I am reconfiguring my thoughts, I am not ignorant to the chick flick Thurday appeal of this here testimony. But true to the gods I will speak it as I see it and feel it and feel it and ... until the sun comes up.
So with my history of sordid relationships with a Trey bearing all manner of poison and an unburied hatchet between Magnet and Goalie, I was well past my rehabilitation phase as regards matters of the heart and other things that weigh upon one's well-being. But Pierre moves from a different frame of reference and is oblivious to most of the elements that freak me out and cause me to desperately over-analyse lots of things. He is confident and strong enough to be honest and blunt and unself-conscious and just plain REAL about loads of things that guys his age and planet are still battling with. He speaks with wisdom and insight and sensitvity without plakking it on too thick or trying to impress. (The impressions made on my spine and window-seat notwithstanding). No talk about happily ever after and respecting anyone in the morning and none of the hero-worshipping that invariably turns out to be Phase I of the hit-and-run power plays many of the same are accustomed to. He has learnt fast and hard that it is all about ME, ME, ME (quick tutorial from gardener helped immeasurably), but he lives it rather than says it. He makes me laugh and sing ... OPERA ...in the kitchen nogal ... and doesn't talk about my battle (ageing) scars and accepts that the lights are often off cos Eskom can be a killer with their mis-billing and not for any other reason. And when the lights are on, it's all good too.
So here's to the gods who proved that my wiring is faulty, that a Trey can be replaced, and that I can carry around my own joy and that champagne and Colgate do go together. That there is a man more endowed in so many ways, that listens to my mother's favourite song which was a hit in the 1950's (deafening Radio 2000 orchestra and all) and still sincerely calls it spiritful despite being obsessed with the likes of Beyonce, Ciara and Shakira. Who says that I bring joy to his world (I do accept that what people say about me has nothing to do with me, but the gods said I may take this one) and who has a voice I could wake up to every day. Note to self is that what we ask for is given, sometimes not in the exact packaging we specified, but sometimes infinitely better, bigger, stronger with the power to move us in unimaginable ways and angles. And the love we send out comes back but at times not from the person whom we've plied it onto cos they have so many cosmic items to tick off as well, and truth be told, we are all just doing the best we can. It's really not personal.
And while nothing human lasts forever, let's celebrate our personhood by sharing love and peace and chocolate cake.
Thursday, 7 April 2011
TITANIC: A relation- SHIP gone down
Despite being single for nearly 3 years, there are always moments that kind of remind me of a place that I've been - either physically or emotionally. Most often it is with relief and the assurance that I've been blessed and saved from parasitic, energy vampire-type strangulation or more importantly from myself.
Truth be told vile ex, Trey, will be most offended to hear that I am not counting the on-again-off-again 9 months we spent never-quite-together because according to him he Loved and Missed me like Crazy (very telling descriptor in the final analysis), but his actions never matched his words. I was the "Wife of his dreams" (if only I was 20 years younger), kind, a great cook, understanding to the point that I could straighten his thoughts!!!??? It drips and bleeds of irony, but that was just the gods sending me to my room on a cosmic time-out hoping I'd figure it out myself some way, some day, two floors up from anywhere.
So I challenge the maxim around Time Healing All Wounds: does this mean just hanging around long enough makes the pain go away OR is it pretty hard work straightening our mind, body and soul in the time allotted to us??? And so with all my curiosity about forensics and his pathological psycho-emotional demonstrations (bi-polar dependent largely on how his team was faring on any given day) I had to one day pull out my big-girl tool-box and find something to help me bury the hatchet and stash the Trey. The saw, pick and chain-saw looked so tempting when I thought of all the little lies, the lack of attention to detail (I mean even my gardener knows that it's all about ME, ME, ME!), the uncollected gifts and the uneaten treats, the thighs a few sizes smaller than mine, the ignored late nite calls from "stalkers", the defensiveness rooted in desperately poor self-esteem parading as a cool guy, the selective memory, desperate investigative telephone calls that maked autism look like ADHD - slow and painful and no-go. Lots of words and dreams and no depth ... but I'd promised to let it go.
So after all the Dr. Phil re-runs and re-reads of everything from the psychic to the psychotic, my redemption came from the most unexpected source: Westlife and Brian McKnight waxing lyrical about letting people go whose hearts weren't in it and enjoying one last cry before leaving it all behind. Just like that. Sweet serenity as I replaced the spade and axe, I felt a surreal transcendence. Very un-Goal-like I weighed nothing and floated above the disappointment and failure and complexity that my gut could no longer handle.
Add to that 2 of the most powerful books I've read lately: The Four Agreements and The Mastery of love (both by Don Miguel Ruiz) and it is as close to human mind freedom as I'll ever get. Interesting philosophy: human behaviour has 2 broad sources: Love and Fear. Actions from love make us stronger, more confident, all the good stuff. Fear does the opposite. So it was less scarific, in fact, exhilirating to find me sending him love and blessings for a great future and of course sincere prayers that he will one day be just a little more action-orientated if only to get his head out of his athletic, fantasy-inducing end and see the Light. Heck, I have a bathroom scale with more verve and determination.
But as my homeo reminded me very crisply last week: So let's agree that this is over and remove the obstacle that is blocking your happiness. Just like that I had my designer booster: Westlife + Brian + Homeo + Don Miguel. Add to that immeasurable portions of common sense, faith and love, and I am set.
Sometimes it's great just to stop and smell the roses that are so close to where you buried the ... bast ... oops, past!
Truth be told vile ex, Trey, will be most offended to hear that I am not counting the on-again-off-again 9 months we spent never-quite-together because according to him he Loved and Missed me like Crazy (very telling descriptor in the final analysis), but his actions never matched his words. I was the "Wife of his dreams" (if only I was 20 years younger), kind, a great cook, understanding to the point that I could straighten his thoughts!!!??? It drips and bleeds of irony, but that was just the gods sending me to my room on a cosmic time-out hoping I'd figure it out myself some way, some day, two floors up from anywhere.
So I challenge the maxim around Time Healing All Wounds: does this mean just hanging around long enough makes the pain go away OR is it pretty hard work straightening our mind, body and soul in the time allotted to us??? And so with all my curiosity about forensics and his pathological psycho-emotional demonstrations (bi-polar dependent largely on how his team was faring on any given day) I had to one day pull out my big-girl tool-box and find something to help me bury the hatchet and stash the Trey. The saw, pick and chain-saw looked so tempting when I thought of all the little lies, the lack of attention to detail (I mean even my gardener knows that it's all about ME, ME, ME!), the uncollected gifts and the uneaten treats, the thighs a few sizes smaller than mine, the ignored late nite calls from "stalkers", the defensiveness rooted in desperately poor self-esteem parading as a cool guy, the selective memory, desperate investigative telephone calls that maked autism look like ADHD - slow and painful and no-go. Lots of words and dreams and no depth ... but I'd promised to let it go.
So after all the Dr. Phil re-runs and re-reads of everything from the psychic to the psychotic, my redemption came from the most unexpected source: Westlife and Brian McKnight waxing lyrical about letting people go whose hearts weren't in it and enjoying one last cry before leaving it all behind. Just like that. Sweet serenity as I replaced the spade and axe, I felt a surreal transcendence. Very un-Goal-like I weighed nothing and floated above the disappointment and failure and complexity that my gut could no longer handle.
Add to that 2 of the most powerful books I've read lately: The Four Agreements and The Mastery of love (both by Don Miguel Ruiz) and it is as close to human mind freedom as I'll ever get. Interesting philosophy: human behaviour has 2 broad sources: Love and Fear. Actions from love make us stronger, more confident, all the good stuff. Fear does the opposite. So it was less scarific, in fact, exhilirating to find me sending him love and blessings for a great future and of course sincere prayers that he will one day be just a little more action-orientated if only to get his head out of his athletic, fantasy-inducing end and see the Light. Heck, I have a bathroom scale with more verve and determination.
But as my homeo reminded me very crisply last week: So let's agree that this is over and remove the obstacle that is blocking your happiness. Just like that I had my designer booster: Westlife + Brian + Homeo + Don Miguel. Add to that immeasurable portions of common sense, faith and love, and I am set.
Sometimes it's great just to stop and smell the roses that are so close to where you buried the ... bast ... oops, past!
Monday, 4 April 2011
MY LIFE AS THE OTHER WOMAN
So I am back from Cape Town and a glorious visit with family and friends. It is also the morning after the last day of unfocused plodding along (To Do list had since been used as embossed paper towel in leaky fridge from daily power outage). But not unlike my physique I have a notable Back-up plan and have it saved somewhere, to be retrieved at the designated hour.
Caught between my Goal (digital bathroom scale who spent the weekend backed-up against the grass trimmer in the garage so as to not cramp my style) and Magnet (double-door-Vegas-mirrored fridge). It is a love triangle that could make them Triad assassins look like long-time-no-see-and-dearly-missed relatives. Moving from one room to the other I am vehemently accused of being the other woman. 'Losbandig' as the Afrikaans saying goes, but I cannot even wear a belt at this stage so there goes the 'loose belt' idea. Every morning I look down and face my Goal- affectionately called Goalee when I am feeling particularly big-hearted and big everything and often too many stomachs between me and his number-crunching - I am wracked with guilt as his increasing numbers are a positive correlation to a loss in the Fridge department and of course I have to account for my actions. What he doesn't quite get is the stability and constant hum of my fridge, Magnet, who is my reminder that all is still well and that he has much to offer and that the power is still on without having to fall out of bed over books, laptop and empty bottles. Magnet is also my meditation space for its contents remind me that I am blessed in so many ways. My only way out is to argue that the link is not direct - that less fridge is not more scale, and it's only a matter of time till Pantry gets called in for questioning.
Why am I even entertaining these accusations? Because my Goal reminds me that it can be done and forces me - red flashing numbers like a 66 FONT performance feedback email and voice from unaired Buck Rogers episodes notwithstanding - to revisit pictures of my classic self.
I'll never be the stuff of fantasies and I have Gym, a KFC Barrel and tub of Haagen Daz on my Bucket List. No-one's gonna want to follow my 1st gear diet regime, but hopefully I would lay down one day having touched the lives of a few people in a positive way. I've certainly made great friends over the years and have family who love and cherish me, and some who are the stuff of Tarantino movies, but there is still love.
So until I figure it all out, I am that OTHER WOMAN to the two very jealous men in my life - Scaly Goal and Magnetic Fridge!
Caught between my Goal (digital bathroom scale who spent the weekend backed-up against the grass trimmer in the garage so as to not cramp my style) and Magnet (double-door-Vegas-mirrored fridge). It is a love triangle that could make them Triad assassins look like long-time-no-see-and-dearly-missed relatives. Moving from one room to the other I am vehemently accused of being the other woman. 'Losbandig' as the Afrikaans saying goes, but I cannot even wear a belt at this stage so there goes the 'loose belt' idea. Every morning I look down and face my Goal- affectionately called Goalee when I am feeling particularly big-hearted and big everything and often too many stomachs between me and his number-crunching - I am wracked with guilt as his increasing numbers are a positive correlation to a loss in the Fridge department and of course I have to account for my actions. What he doesn't quite get is the stability and constant hum of my fridge, Magnet, who is my reminder that all is still well and that he has much to offer and that the power is still on without having to fall out of bed over books, laptop and empty bottles. Magnet is also my meditation space for its contents remind me that I am blessed in so many ways. My only way out is to argue that the link is not direct - that less fridge is not more scale, and it's only a matter of time till Pantry gets called in for questioning.
Why am I even entertaining these accusations? Because my Goal reminds me that it can be done and forces me - red flashing numbers like a 66 FONT performance feedback email and voice from unaired Buck Rogers episodes notwithstanding - to revisit pictures of my classic self.
I'll never be the stuff of fantasies and I have Gym, a KFC Barrel and tub of Haagen Daz on my Bucket List. No-one's gonna want to follow my 1st gear diet regime, but hopefully I would lay down one day having touched the lives of a few people in a positive way. I've certainly made great friends over the years and have family who love and cherish me, and some who are the stuff of Tarantino movies, but there is still love.
So until I figure it all out, I am that OTHER WOMAN to the two very jealous men in my life - Scaly Goal and Magnetic Fridge!
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