This Jade

Jade is a stone,
I once heard someone say.
Light bounces off it
in an opaque, soapy way.

And I turn it in my hand,
And marvel at its stoical feel,
colour, disaffection

And then I show it to you,
tinkling voice and shiny eyed you.

You marvel, too
turning it in your hands,
curious, intrigued, and then nothing.

And, of course, I should've known
what would happen next:

It melts.

This Jade turned in your hands
is now a liquid gem;
opaque, soapy,
bouncing light,
but glassy, fluid,
like my eyes
reflected
in yours.

The City

This city is home,
for a minute
or a day.
One day I will
work it out,
If I can stay.

The city that gave birth to me,
the city that cradled me:
is more foreign than most.

The city that taught me,
the ABC, my 123;
the city that shaped
the way I smell, taste, see
is so far from me.

Another city sang to me,
some time ago,
some distance between us,
turned it into,
the city of memories.
Musty nostalgia fills the album.

Yet another city
laughed with me,
embraced me,
shared its shorelines,
its gaiety,
and sobriety.

And then I came back to this,
this city of youth,
this place to be,
this heart of me.

I might just stay,
someday.

Big Pics and Bigger Circles

I have flashbacks from my past, almost as though something from my past is repeating itself. Or just about to. You know how they say, when you reach that crucial moment in your life when it all comes together for you and you take a peek at a rushing stream of past, present and potential future moments all at once, a dizzying speed of images collide at one point. Well, not quite that, but still. That.

Without making any deliberate sense. I feel like that thing that happened then, and again later sometime, and one more time in the not too distant past, is about to happen again. Different, but the same. And I haven't the faintest clue why it is to be so. Or if it is just a figment of my imagination.

And of course, on cue, the same voice appeared out of almost nowhere, saying to me, well: this is it, happening all over again, because I didnt pay attention to the details the last time.
Oi.
Attention to detail? Are you kidding me?

Maybe it was the bigger picture that I failed to take note of.

That's it!

The bigger picture.

This is where I step back to get a better view of it all.

Breath easy :D

Lights. Camera. Action!

"We are the leaders we've been waiting for" -WLC 2010

I attended a conference of diva hotseaters late last week. If there is any reason to re-awaken the potential we all know that we have lurking inside us, then the best way to go about it is to surround yourself with women who challenge themselves everyday, women who break with regulatory myths, women who trample unsavoury stereotypes; yes, women who change the world, one day at a time.

The Women's Leadership Conference convened at the Sunnyside Park Hotel in Johannesburg on 11-12 March 2010. As luck would have it, traffic into Johannesburg was reduced to a mere crawl thanks to a truck having exploded near the Atterbury exit into Pretoria and traffic was rerouted around nearby cities rather than over and through them. I was on my way into the mega-city having been out of town for the wedding festivities of a friend. It turned out to be a rather testy welcome into Gauteng, if you take into account that losing your cool is not the greatest show of survival of the fittest in a city that collides with the shortness of time and has to digest a population of feisty beings intent on making a corporate killing rather than just surviving on a daily basis. Those below the breadline are a mere mirage, an invisible fringe for the most part. A fantastical media report or two at the most. Such is the plight of the rainbow nation governed by the most TENDER-hearted of statesmen.

Time is money and tangents are costly. So where was I?
Aah. And so it came to pass that I was invited to join this gregarious bunch of divas in this neatly carved space for dialogue in Parktown.
I missed Debora Patta's talk but heard snippets for the length of the conference; she being of South Africa's more outspoken, daring media personalities and unsurprisingly Vodacom's Media Woman of the Year for 2009.
Kristine Pearson envisages a world of 'Women Lighting-up Africa'. She is CEO of the Freeplay Foundation based in the UK, US and SA. Noble cause indeed. And much to be made of the impressive vastness of her not-for-profit international organisation and its intent to more than create awareness of the devil of parafin usage in rural Africa and its insistence on gobbling up unsuspecting children in the impending darkness. She lobbys for clean and renewable energy, lighting and job creation for rural women in Africa.
Day 1's workshop was run by Philipa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa: The Art of Telling Your Story. A powerful orator, Philipa held the audience in a trance of sorts as she went about her talented renderings and interactive sharings.
I sat on a panel that rounded up day one, along with Nicole Wills, founding partner and MD of award-winning advertising and communications agency Stick Communications SA; and Dr Sonia Joubert, academic and consultant in Creativity and Organisational Intelligence. A beautiful thread of conversation ranged from ways in which we might galvanise our own creativity on a regular basis to how to mentor and be mentored in an environment that encourages and unleashes creativity in others. I was happy to work to the theme of the THINK DIFFERENT ad, thanks to a friendly reminder from a brainstormy friend. Crazy works for me!
This theme pretty much carried forth throughout to the end of the two day-conference. It was more than imagination that confirmed the sparkle in people's eyes by the end of it all...

Day 2 began with an inspiring presentation on the mastery of organisational politics by Mardia Van Der Walt-Korsten, Businesswoman of the Year 2009 who is also the CEO of a German multi-national called T-Systems. Mardia cites her key to success simply as her love for life, and her intention to create an environment that puts soul into IT. Her value for humanity in her workplace is infectious as the direct interaction with a woman whose eyes sparkle when she speaks about her life and her work.

Tali Nates from the Johannesburg Holocaust Centre spoke about building bridges and learning tolerance. She spoke about the awareness of being: are we perpetrators, upstanders, bystanders or victims? Choice and repentance were strong themes in her talk.
There could not be a more fabulous way to end the conference than to welcome Prof Edna Van Harte, Dean of the Faculty of Military Science at the Military Academy in Saldanha at Stellenbosch University.
If it is about challenging stereotypes, and if its about a question of whether or not there is a place for women leaders in the military, then I think that she awakened that potential in more than one way.

The conference rounded up with the message of social movement; believe in something strongly and passionately enough, and get something going! Remember this? The MTN Clap :P

Enjoy. And stay with the magic. Its inside of you. Let it Live!

In Memorium: Fatima Meer (1928-2010)

Power
Value
Being

There are not many people in the world who embody the essence of such words.
And those who were, are fast disappearing from our midst.

She touched lives. She angered at the way the veteran struggle was forsaken by the new dispensation. She was a pillar for the underdog. A voice for humanity.

I remember those words, as I sat and scribbled at her bedside: 'When you wake in the morning, challenge the assumptions that you have woken up with. And make sure that they don't go to bed with you again.'

The gleeful stories about Maulvi and her father, MI Meer and their visits to Gandhi's compound in Phoenix sit side by side on my laptop now. Her voice reverberates on a shiny but shame-faced digital recorder. The echoes bounce off hollow walls.

The spirit of who she was, a free one now; unhindered by the ravages of time that show only in the material plane.
The shell has been discarded.
Fatima Meer has ascended.
Rest in Peace, Prof.
Surely, He is most pleased with thee; free to rejoin now with the Most Beloved.

Frankenstein's monster...

Brutal imaginings
make their way into
my consciousness.
Sensation reverberates;
Blinding, Putrid, Bitter.
A final clang signals the winding hour;
I turn to clay; grey and cold.

The villain that hovered
as an image,
a formation of
words
and paper,
a scrawl of ink and graphite,
and yes,
someone elses dreams,
dashed-

Is a fluid vision;
a Flesh and Bone
Reality.

I feel like Frankenstein.
Please hold the champagne, though.

A lump born in the throat
falls into the
ulcer-ed pit,
heaving with
the knowledge.

Realisation
sinks
in:

So,
They do exist.
Beyond
my Wildest
Imagination.

the circularity of blood and dust

Writing is farcical, if it is not able to create a shift in some way. It must, in some small way, undo the latch to the dusty box that is our potential, and reveal the raw material inside that seeks to become something majestic, at least.

Writing, just like anything else that we might do, is undue banter and rather superficial, if it is not accompanied by a whole range of purposeful conditions. Or at least, just one. A purpose. A need to adjust the everyday meander, dissolve the self-doubts and dissipate the fears of failing and of succeeding all at once. Writing is and must. Writing with a sense that something more must come of it. It must be loaded with that intention to do and be for the greater good; even if the path getting there is strewn with thorns. Writing is a vehicle and a weapon, a building and a bridge. Each might be used or abused; the action is fueled by the intent.

Writing, if you really think about it, is an act of worship.
It is a show of love. And a way to bribe the creative soul into production.
Writing is also a show of hate. A means to burn and destroy the wasteland of minds that prefer the route of the blissfully ignorant. It purges these, tearing unused sinews apart, washes away the rust and then forces the flow of new contemplation into the midst of these healing recesses.

Tedious tasks done, writing is the balm. The disease and the cure.
The bitterness and the sweet are found to be one.
Love is, life is, being is.
Bitter. Sweet. Bittersweet...
Living is.
Dieing is.
Bittersweet.
Living-Dieing.
Circularity breathes reason into being.
Writing gives it form.
The vehicle moves onward, transporting thought from one to another. Me to you.
A building of ideology soars skyward.
Glass shatters at a crazy altitude.
Someone slips.
Someone falls.
A grey suit hits concrete pavements of unreason; it bears the mark of the martyr. Red becomes brown.
Brown is earth.
Like ashes to ashes; like dust to dust.

Living is dieing
Dieing is living
Writing is Living-Dieing
Reviving the dust, the ashes, the blood and the being.
Re-creating, moving, becoming, seeing.

"Keep breathing. Everything else is a bonus."


Copyright 2009 Shafinaaz Hassim

Cents and sensabilities

Life is seamless in the way that things work out. Everything makes sense when you turn around and look back at the path that you've trodden, count the scuffs on your boots and measure the creases on your forehead. The final product is seamless perfection, even if it may not seem that way at close first glance. Deep down, the exactness is in order, the perfectness under way.

It all makes sense right now. Complete and perfect sense.

Sometimes the evidence is a direct reference to ones own life. And sometimes it's a story about someone elses life. Life has the most creative ways of bringing the proof of it's pudding to your palate. One thing's for sure: in striving for results-based living that we seem driven to do, the Eureka moments stand out most profoundly as a way of sitting back, or even taking a step away from the flurry of activity and saying: this is it! I get it! This is how it all makes sense. I slept with that knowledge last night. That it all falls together like this. And I smiled that silly smile as I slept. I'm sure I did. Those stubborn lips refused to uncurl. They smiled on into dreamland.

And I probably had them just that way when I walked into the lecture hall at Wits early this morning; I promised my brother that I would make it to his lecture as he was out of town these two days. So I got bribed with the use of his car. But that is an entirely different story. Back to the lecture room. And a lecturer that reminded me of the story of John Nash in 'A Beautiful Mind' - you know the type: quirky academic with an almost religious knowledge of his craft. And I say 'craft' deliberately because of the precision with which this guy talked about theories of taxation and his love for Thomas Paine's 'Rights of Man'. I was transported to my Sociology lectures of old; this was certainly no economist. Except when he started talking (sense) about the evolutionary processes working in favour of economic progression than the revolutions did. Hmm. There's something to think about.

Today was laundry day. In between all of that I also made it to China Mart to pick up bundles of tiny organza bags. And it's more than 24 hours since I've seen my laptop. Another long story. The errand run has me doing things by remote. And my trusty antique mobile phone is earning it's keep, that's for sure! Gmail application is running like a smooth mini office between my designer all the way to the post-production guys. The clock is ticking. Am I the only one who hears it? Sigh.

Johannesburg is a river of traffic on a Friday afternoon. But I wade through the thick of it all. Ormonde. Somewhere just beyond that. And I find the dingy print shop that has done a marvelous job of flyers for this weekends promo. Low budget goodness. I'm just the delivery. Pick up and go. Until I get talking to the rather unassuming looking print dude, whose written an interesting book about SAn history and has just entered his manuscript into the Citizen Book Prize. Aah, is the world tiny or what?

So many things. But my energy is waning. I just wanted to blog it. It all makes sense. Perfect sense. It makes sense to get some well needed sleep, I think.
Sweet dreams all. Hello August. It's going to be one heck of a month. A pink month. A month of pinkness. And many other feel good things. It all makes sense, no? :)

tests of compulsion,love and creativity

I have noticed something rather strangely appealing about the blog- and social media world in general. And that is, the worms that find their way out of the woodwork are outnumbered by the people who will leave notes of wonder and encouragement at your blog-doorstep, at precisely the moment when you need to read it most.

I have also paid attention to the trend of writing that follows the blog world, and the facebook/twitter updates that arise from various people across the globe. This is not some kind of discourse analysis of it all, just an awe-inspired sharing of my observations. I had a chat with one of my dearest friends recently, and I have to make the following comment; I believe that every person who lives on this planet, should in some way be able to sit down and write about their lives, even if it's just about one day that serves as a landmark day, their first love, animate or inanimate reference, their marriage, the birth of a child, the death or loss of a loved one. Anything. The hue of stories waiting to be told and heard are as countless as the experiences had by people in general. And once told, the shared stories will reveal a kind of continuum of life energy, humanity and spirituality that transcends the often imagined boundaries that we seem to find ourselves comforted by, and accustomed to.

I have been allowing alot of stress to filter into my life this past week or so. Which is undeniably unusual for me, because not only do I like having all my ducks in a row, but I'm a pretty easy-going girl for the most part.
Perhaps the two aren't exactly mutually exclusive; having ducks in a row makes for easy living, and less stress in the long term.

This is adrenalin on erm speed. Does that sound right? I didn't think so. Okay let me try that again. It's the good adrenalin of something that I am working towards, compounded by the not so good feeling that I may not make the self-imposed deadlines that I have now confirmed to a portion of the world at large. Makes sense? I'm being cryptic. I know. But it's temporary. Hopefully it will all be resolved, at most by the end of this week. It's yet another exciting project, about to be made manifest and one which has had some behind the scenes work for some years now. So here's hoping that it works out in the best way that it can. Taking into consideration my hectic budgetary constraints and all that.

Then onto the writing thing.
The biography project has become a slow and deliberating attempt to unveil the identity and being of a person about whom very little has been written, and we are relying on a large amount of primary data from people who held him in high esteem, but not all of them engaged with him directly. Needless to say, some worthy gems have been uncovered. One of my most trying recent interviewees looked me in the eye and asked: 'Are you serious about this work?' and 'Can you write?'
Most of these people are skeptics of a long-forgotten era. Some are high ranking people, used to business above pleasure. And many are almost 3 times my age. It's a more than forgivable skepticism. I was tested. And apparently I more than won approval at the end of it all. I was thrilled with the balance of the conversation, of course.

I'm editing more than writing, at the moment. It has been two years since my book 'Daughters are Diamonds' was launched at the Cape Town Book Fair. In that time, I have done many little things that seem to be adding up to delightful newness, and I have met myriad people of the same. Also, I have compiled two manuscripts in the last year. I am figuring out what to do with them :)

Much Love,
S

collision course

Im doing alot of that nearing the edge kind of over-thinking these few days; and I think that when we put love and hate on a collision course, then we only have ourselves to blame. Im rambling again. Its just that there are certain of these life lessons that tend to go over my head and then I find them repeating themselves all too patiently while I sit back and scratch my head in confusion. This time the confusion levels are in a near danger zone.

I dont get it. I dont. And its no longer a person delivering a message or gifting this life shock to me. Its something more; there's this nagging feeling at the back of my mind saying there's more more more to this. So, the suspense is killing me. What is it?

More. Less, but more.
I think the space between lessons is lessening. Still, the same lessons. But like contractions before birthing, and what we hear to be the labour process, the timing between mini earthquakes is getting shorter... the end is near. I think I must get it at some point. Like really just have that lightbulb, eureka moment! Aha! I get it! Like that.. Unless the games being upped and the challenge along with it. And Im losing braincells through my nose in the process, making me worse for wear :/

There's alot going on inside; and definite lines in the sand regards how much I am willing to put up with. Those lines are forming barriers that barricade me from the row of daggers aimed in my direction. Not so sure that's a bad thing or a good thing. It just is.

This rumble of stuff from the inside needs a voice. That's the only thing I know.
And all hell will break loose when that happens.
I figure its winter anyway, so at least we'll be warm, right?
Anyone want to cuddle? Okay, make that a group hug :P

I've set myself on a collision course. I hope all bones remain intact when I'm done with my chosen encounter. I hope that indeed, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. And I hope that I can finally demarcate that area between pussy-footing niceties and just being true to myself. Being real. It's the freedom that I'm craving for the moment. Probably for a longer time than only now. And it scares the hell out of me!

Drifting, Dripping Words

Words drift across a page
In search of inner light.
But the glow of a lamp
standing
ominously
over my shoulder
forces the muse
into
a
corner,
making it shrivel up
in fright.

Words drip down the sides
of these pages,
and are splayed across
the little table.

Words rain over the table's edge,
making their escape
towards the floor;
seeped in carpeted carelessness,
they wait
to be
trampled on.

eternity dwarfs those...

Surrounded, by people and love and life,

Lifted by the lightness of simply being

And flung into the air by words and colours

that make me squeal in childlike delight,

I have much to be thankful for.


Then dunked into an ocean of despair

just by finding out that darkness exists!

That it is the gift that some will gladly bestow

on the brides of Naivete and meekness.

And that twisted in this vineyard of

black and white; dark and light -

this world of sobriety and intoxication -

are things that you and me in simple play

might fail to really grasp.


The finding makes me weak,

at these knees fit only for sitting

cushioned, on the little green mat

that points a sometimes wandering mind

to that place

where eternity dwarfs

those mountains in the mind,

those petty details of

black and white; dark and light.

And the silly borders

of sobriety and intoxication.

time travel

a long time ago, my dad told us that once the travel bug bites, you're just as good as done for. we used to giggle profusely as children, when we heard him say that with a hint of sinister in his voice. i mean, what parent wants to have their children bit by something remotely unpredictable; or anything for that matter. of course, this is meant in most figurative sense (or so it seems). travel bug, like literary bug or movie bug that keeps you firmly glued to the latest string of blockbuster reads or motion pictures.

so the travel bug it was. first time out of SA for us kids was in 1984; our first umrah; a pilgrimage to saudi arabia along with a bunch of cousins and aunts and uncles and extended members of family that left only profound memories of the fancy ice creams and cherry cooldrinks that we gleefully got our fingers and tongues into. my sister celebrated her fifth birthday in Madina on News Years Eve. And so it turned that our most memorable holidays coincided from then on with her birthday. And other's were planned around the April date of my parents' wedding anniversary. Celebratory efforts also linked in nicely with an appreciation and setting aside of real family time. And tied in perfectly with well-timed travel arrangements. the first time we visited India was April 1994. Mauritius was April sometime some year. Singapore too. Malaysia another time. Egypt and Turkey midyear-ish, although my parents have experienced a winter in Istanbul. Europe, the US and Canada in June. Etcetera...

needless to say, we're a family of compulsive travellers. and of all the places both east, west and somewhere in between that we have ventured out to, India has by far held our fascination and love in myriad ways, explainable in simple wordedness. even for me, who prides myself on wordy recognitions (or deludes myself that way?).

cheeky worded illusions are my vocation of choice, so be it. moving on...

this latest trip was reminiscent of those other trips -last was India July 2008- with the family on a whirl wind tour of sights and delights; feel good moments and tonnes of stuff packed into a short time frame. just the way we like it. just the way that we thrive on, taking a full deck of adventure loving personalities in the same space. it makes the world tiny as a marble. and its the kind of travel that transcends the necessitated dimensions: time, space, being. it just is. and its awesome :)

here's to travel. in time. and in a rush against time. for all time!

here's to being a happy carrier of the travel bug, and to recognising in ourselves the fact that we are just travellers in this life, really. may the Almighty in His infinite wisdom always make our journeys and destinations havens of safety and learning for us; and may we never forget to extend our appreciation of the wonders of Creation as we engage in it and are a part of it.

land of the taj

India beckons to me, once more. The land of the Taj; the sprawl of slums and the litter of children bleeding from these decrepit sites merging with a heap of bollywood spin-offs and likelies... India has already started that different throb in my veined connectivities. India beckons. And I must heed that call.

bringing me 'home'

Waves
crash over reason

my deepest anxieties
uncovered
by the movements not of water
and moon dancing wanton,
but of shifting tectonic plates
far below the
usual realm of
consciousness.

Waves crash
over anything remotely
reasonable

I am. And I am no more.

Content confusion a sacred state almost.
Confused contention a place to
sit and twiddle thumbs
on a fancy laptop
with no
mouse for company.

Just a burning wrist
fit for the chiropractors
skilled
wringing of his own two;
wrists and palms
and teeth, one ivory and one gold.

Spontaneity drowned
in that exchange.
Only more to contend with,
oceans of reason and un-reason
and some pain;
a meddlers chair to sit in
while wrists do their work
on my own.

And a ream of paper waiting
to be branded with
ink and words and someone elses dreams, dashed.

More waves, crashing on the shore
of newer contemplations...

Bringing me home
to simple content
and the space of knowing
that there is
no coincidence...

Only Plan.

For He is the Best;
the Planner.

I can take rest.

a river runs through...

I am chatting to a writer buddy; and we're discussing love, life and relationships; toothpasty* kinda talk... nothing unique or unheard of, but forever enticing of reflection.

And so I said something and the advice was: 'Don't Change. Stay who you are.'

Aah. Words are strange things. Acknowledgment from friends means so much of course; but let's be totally honest: Change is inevitable. Sometimes fundamental things change, and other times its little nuances that may not show.

Life moves through us, and changes us... Just like a river moves by banks and towns, replenishing and feeding; bringing along with the tide, it's flood of enthusiasm and sometimes leaving destruction in it's wake.

I wonder, if we had to map out a canvas of these changes... what on earth would it look like?

Will it be filled with colour, streaks running down in the dance with gravity's pull? Or will it be adorned with something natural, wholesome and felt; textured by the seasons, tarnished by the rust and glowing with days of eternal sunshine? If I had to paint one for every person that I have met in my life, I imagine filling hallways with amazing design; some gregarious and dark, other's awash with soulful inspirations. Wind chimes would signal laughter and drumbeats for passion, love and sadness; fear, malice and anger would flow as the bark used on railway sleepers, and joy would appear as mirrors reflecting the eyes of all who hold them close.

Joy is as it does. In all of us. A whole new world exists, just by thinking about making something that reminds me of everyone I have encountered on my path; everyone who has made an undeniable impact on being who I am. On the evolution of who I am at this moment. Evolutionary relationships are the basis of all we do, and all that makes us; A blog I enjoy reading by Azra also discusses this most beautifully in a recent post.

It's inevitable that some will be immortalised in the words I write; while other's will find their way into the light through the colours that my eye picks out. A river runs through me; every day I am replenished, destroyed, and filled to overflowing again. Words are strange things indeed.

So. What will your change canvas look like?

Shafs


*word and concept, courtesy lady h as added to discussion about my toothpaste theory; and her toothpasty chats with the Guy.

belief, trust and process

I am in need of one of those magic potions that will keep me astride the latest developments, and all pepped up with the vitamins of good and glorious. Okay, what I mean to say is that what with all the hype of my new writing project, I am in constant need to replenish the energies of enthusiasm and to find myself the inspiration I need to dive into it.

*Deep Breath*

The new project is about to begin. I got a call to set the ball rolling late last week. And so, I am about to take that nose-dive into the refreshing waters of an exciting research project that has already got me meeting some fascinating types. My world is about to merge with an underworld of veterans and newbies; spies of old, turned fruitsellers and ex-pats nostalgic for the dust of days gone by.

Of course, colliding with that novel that I have been pretending to write, means that the overlaps will prove to be an interesting challenge for me. And there's no rush to get anywhere, anytime as per diary and stop-watch. No guilt about words that won't happen. No anxiety about the project being compromised. I am just being one with the words and being pulled along by the current from which they flow.

I believe in process; I trust the ability for things set in motion to make their way along a vine of growth and contention and more growth.

So they will happen together; my rainbow of things, side by side. And together, they will merge on this canvas of newness.

PS: This post represents the inauguration of the new baby. I will do a separate post on it in a few days when I can get back to the blogs. Cheerio till then. S.

Good News and Bad News...

Good news is always welcome.

I believe that.

Especially since a lot of negative words get thrown about and rages flying from people you probably won't remember in two years time can cause unnecessary grief. And then there were those 'venom-spitting turds' who called themselves anon. Aaaarghhhh. I mean...who needs someone else's hot potato in their laps, right? Especially when things you say get twisted by ego's only ready for a jol.

What happens when their thirsts are quenched? Will they see the light, or will they continue to delude themselves for a lifetime? I guess everyone gets what they deserve, me included :) Alhamdulillah.

Ok.. First the bad news. I am in an excruciating amount of pain today. This all due to some painkillers wearing off and an hour of dental drilling into the recesses of my one measly tooth. It used to live quite peacefully at the back of my mouth until that dreaded day. A cavity. My dentist says its due to those braces I had when I was 13. Today's braces don't do that, she says. Right. Back then it was the coolest thing to sort out twisty teeth; accept for the fact that I couldn't chew gum or eat 'jawbreakers' (remember those hot spicey red ones??!!) or that I couldn't eat those lollypops with the gooey centre.

Back to the present; this all a load of drama to bring me to my proverbial knees. Actually, I am sitting on my knees as I type this! (I use one of these posture accurate typist chairs that has a rest for knees and butt. It's kinda funky. And it has wheels :P I love it. But Boi am I in pAiN!. Sigh.

So, to put away the bad news, I'm going to sleep. Writing is not happening today. Not like this, any way. Hmm... now for the good news...

I have just been appointed as a trustee (the youngest, I might add :P) on the corporate board of WIPHOLD. I know, its just a word. Or an acronym. I know. But it's a feather in my cap, whichever way. We are a total of five board trustees. The CEO of WIPHOLD, the CEO of WipCapital and the Chairperson (a Founder Member with great Merit in her field - legal and corporate). And then theres another two of us, newly appointed. This piece of news comes at a rather opportune time, seeing as I am at the threshold of many choices. It is a culmination of the many coats that I wear in the corporate and social sectors and I really hope to be able to make the most of it.

Read the Corporate Profile Mission Statement HERE.

The reasons that I have become hugely interested in this organisation is their immense social responsibility programmes in place. In some cases, companies like these are able to do more than the state. Read more about the extensive Social Development Commitment HERE.

I have a feeling that 2009 is going to be one heck of an exciting year!

energy

energy

thrown about carelessly

ocean

swim or die

words

piercing wanton bodies

made of clay only

but memories stay

because thats what

manufactured the energy

then;

now it's nothing.

so dont worry, cos

energy...

thrown about carelessly,

no more.

Driving Dad Crazy

Azra's awesome post, Paternal Instinct's, about her dad got me thinking about my own sweet, volatile, and fluid relationship with my dad. We all start out with that typical daddy's girl virtue of life. And having come full circle, we do indeed return to take that place with full conviction. And in so far as dads are concerned, I dont think they ever imagine that we ventured away from that place. But then we're all not typical I suppose :/

Seriously though. Dad's are our ready made heroes. They do the impossible, with gritted teeth we never get to see, they save kittens from daring heights to the eyes of our four-year-old beings and take us to see grand wonder's like pavements full of pigeons. And they're armed with necessities like packets of breadcrumbs for such occasions, I might add.

They also cheer us on when we set our sights on reaching goals. But in asserting our identities, they feel afraid for us, I imagine. They wonder, if their little girls' grand enthusiasms will outlast a world of meanness and strife. They transfer their fears of a life lived hard onto a blank canvas and look carefully at it, wondering if those tainted hues will bleaken the clear vision of that sparkle that they see in their daughters' eyes. They're heroes, sure. But they're real softies when it comes to their little girls. And in all their good intentions, they're a little bewildered when their little girls show a feisty stubbornness to hold onto airy fairy dreams in the hope that these will stay afloat on the stormy ocean of the adult world. Dad was. He thought I should enter the health profession. I thought not (with all due respect to health professionals!). He supported my decision. I did undergrad architecture. Three years of it. And that was it. My post highschool stint was done. This was only the beginning for me. Then came the candy store! And I was the doe-eyed kid. A Bachelor of Arts. With Psychology, Sociology, English, African Lit, Classical Civilizations, Applied Ethics, International Relations, Politics, Philosophy... I may have skipped a few electives, but I was wowed by the options. And I delved in with much glee. Dad was concerned. Talents wasted, he said. And how will you survive? I did. In fact, I thrived!

I joined the corporate world soon after my MA. Writing continued. Blogging began. I travelled. I grew. But I yearned for something more. This was only an interim place to be. And dad was happy. I was learning responsible things, he said. I was making strides, meeting people, and carving out some bits of life.

I am a writer. This makes me happy.

He still is, too. Because now, he sees me. He really sees me. The little girl me. The creative me. The corporate me. The daughter me. The sociologist me. The writer me. The every me. All his dreams for me are me. And more than that, I also see me. I see him, too. And I see me in him. And him in me.


The beauty about relationships that heal and mend and make us who we are, is that they are wonderfully (and often surprisingly) evolutionary in nature. It takes an open awareness. A realisation. And a heart of compassion. Thats about it.