Tag Archives: life

265 (Apr. 27) 267.3 (Apr. 28) Pizza, Art and Fran’s

28 Thursday Apr 2016

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I had pizza for dinner on Tuesday night from Papa John’s. Grilled Chicken, bacon, roma tomatoes and five-cheese. It was so delicious and I had 4 slices.

I stepped on the scale on Wednesday morning and was surprised to see 265-My goal weight!

However, I knew that the pizza hadn’t quite caught up with me, so kept my excitement at bay. Also, I knew that I had planned on having lunch with my husband before heading to the AGO to check-out some art.

We went to Fran’s, one of our favourite joints for lunch. If you live in Toronto, you will probably know about Fran’s. I ordered a “Big Breakfast” knowing that I had pizza last night and probably should have been “taking it easy” on the food-front…sausage, bacon, eggs, toast, home fries and pancakes! [sarcasm]

I ate 2 sausages, 1 bacon, a few bites of toast and eggs, all the home fries and both pancakes. I really love their home fries.

We spent the entire afternoon walking, but I guess fairly low-key, as my steps and calories didn’t seem to burn-out that quickly, despite the fact that I did.

Looking at art is amazing, but it’s actually very tiring as well. When I first arrived I was very teary and everything was making me cry. By the end, everything just started to look the same. This is when I knew it was time to leave, but not before finding the Renoir. I love Renoir. He is my favourite artist of all time.

When we finally made it home, after picking-up our son, I was utterly exhausted. Physically, mentally and emotionally. I warmed-up 2 leftover pieces of pizza for dinner and shared them with my son.

This morning when I stepped on the scale, my weight was back up to 267.3. Damn.

The temptation to feel disappointed in myself and go on a bender looms overhead. But, I know better now. There is no need for me to be disappointed. I am doing an incredible job and, I’m just going to keep going.

An important change of thinking for me is to not look at these meals as “mistakes” or with the mentality that I now have to “starve” or “be good” to make up for it, but to just treat them as any other meal. Like a normal person. I don’t have to feel guilty about choosing to have pizza one night instead of eggs and toast.

This is life. I made good choices in the midst of it all. I could have eaten more pizza than I did, but I stopped myself. I could have kept all the pizza for myself, but I shared it with my husband and child and I could have eaten my entire “big breakfast” despite feeling full/satisfied instead of stopping when I felt I had eaten enough.

265 is within reach and I will get there again. More important than that number, I tried some of my “summer” clothes on that I couldn’t fit a couple of months ago, and they fit comfortably now. And, even more important than the clothes, I am feeling good. I feel my body and I can tell there have been positive changes.

I’m still inspired to keep working on these life-long changes and am determined to work on things in little increments so that the changes will be long-lasting and truly transform my approach to food, health, weight loss and nutrition.

271.1 – A Weighty Issue

18 Monday Apr 2016

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Throughout my life, I have found it very frustrating and discouraging how much my weight can fluctuate. My last post saw me at 268.7 and I was feeling very positive. I had given myself a goal of reaching 265 by April 30th and when I saw that # I thought, ‘maybe I can actually reach that goal’. And then, getting on the scale this morning I think ‘there’s no way I’m reaching that goal’.

This is not a new struggle. There have been many times before when I was doing great at this ‘being healthy’ thing and would step on the scale and be up a few, and as much as 5, pounds. And, historically, I would come crashing down and I would give up. ‘If I’m going to gain weight anyway, I may as well eat whatever I like.’

This see-saw of weight and emotions is one of the reasons I have decided to post my weight. It’s important for me to see that it is not the most reliable measurement of the hard work I am putting in. It’s a number. Ultimately, we want to see it trending downwards, but I’m no longer going to allow myself to be discouraged when I step on the scale and the number is up from last time.

Posting my weight (a thought that terrified me a few months ago) has been really positive for me. I used to think that someone other than me knowing what I weighed would be the most humiliating, horrible, dreadful thing.

But, posting the # has, actually, diminished its power and its hold over me. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed like I thought I would be. In fact, I’m proud. I’m proud of myself for being honest about who I am and having the guts to tell the world. I’m also proud of how I don’t feel ashamed about it. It’s good to know that I have that much respect for myself.

I have people in my life who love me just the way I am but up until now, they didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know how fat I really am, because only I knew the “real number”. Now they do. And, guess what? Nothing has changed. They still love me just as much. And now that the ‘dirty little secret’ is out and I’m still loved and accepted and there was no cataclysmic event that followed, I realize just how meaningless the # really is.

This is who I am and, I love myself for who I am. Would I like to see changes? Yes. Does that mean I don’t like myself now? No. Would I like the # to go down and be smaller? Yes. Am I going to get hung-up on it and discouraged if it doesn’t? No.

I am loved. I love myself. I’m doing my best and I am enjoying my life.

You can’t put a weight on that.

Money! Money! Money!

12 Tuesday Apr 2016

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Money! Money! Money!

I’m 35 and I don’t own a house, a car, or anything of real monetary value. We don’t live extravagant lifestyles- we very rarely go out, we order in a few times a month, we aren’t regular drinkers (and by that, I mean that I have, maybe, 4 mojitos/year and my husband probably averages 1 beer/month), we don’t smoke or partake in any other kind of drug/narcotic, we don’t buy fashion/designer anything, we don’t purchase games, music, or pay for new tech equipment regularly, we buy the cheapest groceries and sale items habitually.

And yet, we live pay cheque to pay cheque and have a significant amount of debt that we are, basically, maintaining (as in, we’re not increasing or decreasing it).

Yes, we have a child and yes, we pay for day care. We have already acknowledged that when he is in school we will have a little bit more breathing room financially.

But, we see other people with children who can afford: car, vacation, expensive clothing, expensive tech gadgets, expensive groceries, home repairs, household purchases (like furniture, appliances), go on regular dates and other kinds of weekends/trips/excursions.

When I hear people who party, go on trips every weekend, don’t have any children and make more money than I do complain about ‘not having money’ it just drives me bonkers. We are hard-working, simple-living, just trying to make ends meet, people. And we struggle every single day.

Does it sound like I’m whining?

Maybe I am, a little bit.

But, I know that, at the end of the day, we are responsible for where we are financially. It’s not anybody’s fault but our own that we: are in low paying jobs, have a child in day care (though, this was still more financially sound than me staying home with him), chose to move from NZ to Canada and the list goes on of personal choices that have landed us in this position.

We dug this hole ourselves. Well, for the most part. There are, obviously, circumstances out of everyone’s control that pop-up in life and require $$ that we would have chosen to use differently.

There is that old saying “money can’t buy happiness” on which I’ve always gone back and forth. There are times I agree with it and other times when I disagree.

I don’t have money. Am I happy? Generally speaking, I think I am for the most part.

However, would I be happier if I didn’t have to live by such a strict budget, If we had less financial burden, more disposable income, the ability to go on regular vacations and buy a $60 household item without a month of debating whether we REALLY need it, or not, only to inevitably decide we can continue to make due without it because, although it would be great and make our lives so much more enjoyable, it’s not an absolute necessity?

Ugh, yeah, I think so.

Doesn’t that kind of mean that money can and does buy happiness?

But, then I flip the coin and I wonder if we, as humans, always want more no matter how much we already have.

If we were out of debt, had a car, could afford a vacation every year, and could buy $60 items without having a mild panic attack, would we just continue to want more to make us happy? Yes, we have this, but now I want…a house, a new sofa set, a new tv…

Maybe the quote should actually say: “money can’t buy ultimate happiness” or “money can’t buy nirvana”. Because, no matter how much money you have, there will always be unhappiness and there will always be other things you want, want to do, etc. There will always be more. We will always be striving to some extent.

If I were more mathematically, scientifically, minded, I would love to be the person who creates a method for measuring happiness. And pain, actually (but that’s a different topic for another blog).

If I were to get $10,000 (for example) I could be completely debt-free. That would bring me to a 4.8 on the ‘money bought happiness’ scale. If I made an extra $2/hr, it bumps me to a 5.1 on the ‘money bought happiness’ scale and so forth. If I had a monthly disposable income of $2000 or more, I would be at a 5.4 on the scale.

And, I’d have a Noble Prize or something and be super happy.

But, alas, I am not that intelligent, nor do I have the energy to invest in such research. I barely even had the focus to write the paragraph above with horribly (not) thought through numbers in it.

But, thankfully, there are people who have the intelligence, energy and resources to put into these kinds of questions and here are a few interesting articles about it:

http://time.com/money/2802147/does-money-buy-happiness/

http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/can-money-buy-happiness/

http://www.forbes.com/sites/susanadams/2013/05/10/money-does-buy-happiness-says-new-study/#73fa309b40b5

The Diet Pepsi that almost Wasn’t

08 Friday Apr 2016

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Just a funny, little, tale about my morning so far. Written for a friend who shares my affinity for drinking Diet Pepsi in the morning instead of coffee.

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I debated with myself whether, or not, I wanted to stop at the Tim Horton’s on my way to work this morning. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that I would stop, because I really wanted a Diet Pepsi to kick-off Friday and the expectation of a great weekend.

I entered Tim Horton’s excited and expectant to enjoy that cold, sharp, biting fizz of the Diet Pepsi.

I ordered a breakfast sandwich and the lady said to me “would you like a drink with that?” to which I replied “oh, yes. A Diet Pepsi, please!”

Another staff member, upon hearing my request, went to the fridge and began to search for a Diet Pepsi.

“We don’t have any”, she declared.

My heart sunk into my shoes.

The woman serving me at the counter repeated the bad news: “We don’t have any. We have 7up?”

“No, thank you” I said mournfully.

And then, I got an idea. Perhaps, just maybe…

“Are there some in the back?” I asked, with a glimmer of hope in my voice.

The lady at the counter shook her head and added “No, the truck just arrived”.

My shoulders collapsed and my chin shrunk down towards my chest.

I paid for my sandwich and moved to the side to wait for it. As I waited, I was determined to not let it bring me down. I was also plotting alternatives. I opened up my change purse and began to count to see if I had, at least, enough to get a can of Diet Coke from the vending machine at work.

$0.95

Darn it.

‘Oh, well’, I thought, ‘I’m not going to let it get me down.’ And I returned to humming a song I had heard earlier while cuddling with my son.

SLAM!

The sound of something heavy being dropped to the floor pulled me out of my reverie.

‘Could it be?’ I thought to myself.

‘Did they just bring in…’

“We have it now.” A voice breaks-in to my thought and I see, standing before me, such a glorious site. A Tim Horton’s employee standing there, case of Diet Pepsi in her arms, welcoming me to come and partake of the bounty.

“Do you want some?” The sweetest words I’ve ever heard.

“Oh, yes, please!” I exclaim with, perhaps, just a little too much joy. “May as well make it two since I’m using my debit card” I add, trying to appear level headed and rational about it all.

She began to put the information into the register, an obvious look of amusement across her face.

Feeling the need to justify my intense reactions to the events of the last five minutes, I say: “Some people drink coffee in the morning. I drink pop.”

“Good for you” she replies, with the trace of a chuckle in her voice.

Deciding now to just embrace the craziness of being as desperate as I was for a morning Diet Pepsi, I say: “Thank you. You have made my day”.

And with a happy heart, and two bottles of Diet Pepsi in my bag, I headed for work, enormous grin on my face the entire way.

In My Room

06 Wednesday Apr 2016

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When I was a little girl, I truly lived in a wonderland that was my brain.

When I close my eyes and picture myself in my bedroom, a million stories and memories wash-over me and I am instantly nostalgic for the wondrous worlds in which I once lived.

I can see myself:

– 16 years old, with window wide-open on a cold, winter’s day, room temperature lingering somewhere around 60 degrees Fahrenheit, listening to a Mark Pinkus album (piano music) on my cassette player, room extremely organized and tidy, lying on my bed writing.

– 12 years old, cuddled-up on an old arm chair I had in my room for a time, eating a concoction of microwaved marshmallows, chocolate chips and butter while watching “Fievel Goes West” or “WKRP in Cincinnati”

– 13 years old, trying to clean and organize a messy, disastrous, room while listening to the “Reality Bites” soundtrack, rewinding “Stay” by Lisa Loeb over and over and over again while singing at the top of my lungs. Eventually, I give-up on cleaning and go-about creating interesting outfits from my wardrobe. I pluck-out a floral peasant dress, leggings, black Doc. Martens and a jean jacket, sit at my desk and start to sketch different fashion ideas and outfits. Maybe I’ll be a fashion designer one day.

– 11 years old, NKOTB posters plastering my walls, wearing lots of neon, a bucket full of empty peanut shells before me as I continue to shell and eat peanut after peanut while listening to “How to Eat Fried Worms” on book tape.

– 10 years old, watching “The Sound of Music” while I cleaned the giant china cabinet that my Mom had brought with us when we moved-in with my Stepdad, and had been stored in my room, pretending that I was a cleaning lady working at the house of some wealthy, handsome, romantic man.

– 15 years old, baritone in lap, music stand in front of me, practicing scales, arpeggios, exercises, and songs until my lips began to tingle. Dreaming of being a famous musician and picturing myself as an older lady, still playing the baritone, and extremely fulfilled with my life.

– 18 years old, crying. Sad. Alone. Depressed. Lying on my bed in a dimly lit room, writing even darker poetry in my journals while listening to “At This Point in My Life” by Tracy Chapman on repeat.

– 8 years old , lying on the floor with my Children’s Worldbook Encyclopedias strewn-out on the floor in front of me as I researched the solar system and geology and created little ‘homework projects’ and assignments for myself. Eager to learn, to soak-up information, create work of which I could be proud, and trying to achieve a goal of doing a project about every subject contained therein.

All of these moments, and so many more, come to life in my mind when I think of them. I was so consumed in whatever I was doing at the time. I don’t know if it’s the nostalgia or just how my imagination works, but these seemingly normal moments in my life all hold massive amounts of emotion, thought, feeling, and emotional pull to them.

I have recently watched the movie “Inside Out” and I wonder if the reason that these memories have such a strong place in my memory and bring with them all the things mentioned above is because, for whatever reason, these are “core memories”. I have always pictured my brain as a large filing room full of shelves, cabinets, boxes, safes and file folders. When I have to remember something, my mind actually has a whole system of locating where the information was stored and, depending on which part of storage area it is in, a different way it is kept, retrieved and opened. So, I really dug the “Inside Out” perspective.

For some reason, these memories of me in my old bedroom, all had a deep impact on my development. I think-back to each of these moments as ‘special moments in time’. There is a file in my brain that ‘pings’ every time I pull one of these memory files from the archives.

I refer to a few of these memories at times I need to “go to my happy place”. I will close my eyes, feel the cold breeze coming through my window, the smell of fresh, winter air, the sound of piano music in the background, the organization and cleanliness of a bright room and the soft, warm, blankets on my bed and feel instantly relaxed.

Or, I will close my eyes, hear “My Sharona” playing in the background, see a flutter of creative outfit ideas and designs around my room, experience the thrill of originality once again, and come out of it inspired and energized.

I guess I still have moments like this when I’m in my room. They happen less often as I am married, so share the space, have a child, and often don’t spend much time in there when not sleeping or cleaning.

But, I still have those moments when I feel totally present in the moment and I wonder if I will be looking-back on these moments in 20 years and feeling the same way I do now about the things that happened in my room.

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There is no place like…home?

04 Monday Apr 2016

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Home.

It’s such a confusing, difficult and complicated term to me.

Where is my home? Is it where I am? Where my family is? If so, are we talking my immediate or extended family?

Is it where I feel most comfortable? Most relaxed?

Is it where I was born and raised or where I lived for the longest period of time?

Where is my home?

Our society puts such an incredible value on this idea or concept of home. But, I don’t really know what that is to me and so, I often feel lost.

They say that “home is where the heart is”. If that’s so, my home truly does exist in a great multitude of places, for my heart is always at many places at once.

At any moment of the day you can find me yearning for one of my ‘homes’. I long to be in New Zealand, driving along the stunning shoreline, and laughing with my friends and family who live there. I long to be back on the farm where I spent my childhood going on adventures and exploring the wilderness around me. I want to be in the homes where my parents live, and sitting with them over dinner, laughing and chatting about the funny stories, old and new. I desire to be in the residence where I am living now, playing and giggling with my son while I stream some great, new, tunes on Google Play.

There are days I am desperate to move back to NZ – and other days I am yearning to return to my hometown. And then, of course, there are those days when I can’t imagine living anywhere different to where I am now.

Being pulled in all these directions all the time is exhausting. I feel like I am constantly betraying someone. If we’re here, we’re disappointing both sides of the family because we are close to neither. If we lived in one of those places, the other side of the family would be hurt because we had not chosen to live by them.

I have been challenging myself lately to really seek what is best for my little family of three. What is best for my husband, for me, and for our son.

This is a difficult question to tackle when you feel guilty for not “being there” for the people who have stood by your side for your entire life.

But, what is being a parent if not preparing your child to mature, venture out, and embrace his/her own life, doing what is best for him/her and will make him/her the happiest that he/she can, possibly, be?

I have been seeking to turn our residence into a “home” ever since we moved here over a year ago. And, I have little moments- pockets of time- here and there when the sun is shining in on our lounge, my son is lying on the floor playing with this trucks and my husband is standing in the kitchen, humming to himself, when a deep breath finds its way out of the depths of my heart and exhales a contended sigh – “I’m home”.

But, I’ve also had this feeling when opening the door to my office on a weekday morning, and I’m greeted by my plants on the window sill, the desk where I spend a good portion of my life, and my awesome “Zootopia” mug out of which I enjoy a great amount of homemade mochas during the week.

I have also experienced the welcoming feeling of being home when I have looked-out on the city in which I live-when I see the lights of the familiar buildings, hear the sound of streetcars rushing along the tracks, and breathe-in the odd, but familiar scent that rises-up from the subway.

Does that mean that “home” really is wherever I am?

Do I bring “home” with me wherever I go?

Am I at home when I am on the streetcar, on the farm, on the beach at Lyall Bay, in my office, in my living room, and on the street where I am walking?

Maybe.

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To Thine Own Self…

31 Thursday Mar 2016

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I was terrified when I moved to New Zealand.

I wasn’t 100% convinced that it was the right thing to do, but the people I trusted around me seemed to be, so I was doing it with the faith that they knew what they were talking about.

3 years earlier I had joined a gap-year program in Toronto, where I had been living and working for the past year, feeling lost, in way over my head and struggling to make ends meet.

There were 6 other people on this program from USA, Canada and New Zealand.

Over the years, I developed a deep friendship with the guy from NZ. We spent a lot of time together and were given more responsibility in the organisation, culminating in the request for us to return the following year as team leaders for the program.

By the end of the first year, this boy professed his love for me. But, I just wasn’t feeling it. He was like a brother to me and when he started to be at all romantic towards me, I felt like I would puke. It just felt wrong. I loved his friendship, but was not attracted to him or interested in him in that way.

After 3 years in the country, he decided it was time to return to Aotearoa-the land of the long, white, cloud. However, the leadership of the church did not want him to leave, as they still had plans for what we could do together. I was sent-in to talk to him because they all thought I would be able to convince him to stay.

But, even I could not persuade him to stay.

My minister pulled me aside and told me that she thought I was making a huge mistake by letting him go. She told me that she thought I had been blinded to my real feelings for him by feelings I had for someone else, the focus I had on the ministry I had been doing in the community and even a fear of commitment.

I trusted that she knew what she was talking about, especially since she wasn’t the only one saying that we were meant to be together. Everyone in that community had been pushing me to be with him and expressing the belief that it was what God wanted.

So, clearly, I was missing something. I began to feel as though I couldn’t trust my own mind or my own emotions, so I had to trust that everyone else knew what was right. And, so, I did what she told me to do and I went to this friend and suggested to him that we should give “us” a real chance.

It didn’t change his mind about going home, but he did agree to come to my hometown for a few days and meet my family.

It was a horrible week for me. I felt uncomfortable, nervous, odd, sick to my stomach, miserable and confused for most of our time together.

I just kept telling myself that I couldn’t trust my thoughts and that my “real”, romantic, loving feelings would eventually come to the surface. They never did.

Despite all of this uncertainty, I found myself in Toronto, saying my farewells and crying to everyone I trusted that I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing. I shared that I didn’t think I had feelings for him, that I wasn’t sure that I really wanted to be with him and I was afraid I was making a horrible mistake. I was hoping someone would hear me and tell me that I shouldn’t go.

But, time and time again these friends and mentors made me feel like I was silly, confused, and didn’t really know what I wanted.

I sobbed the day I left the city, my chest heaving with every breathe as though it had the weight of a thousand bricks on it. My other best friend was with me at the airport and I sobbed and clung to her for dear life, hoping she wouldn’t let go of me. I didn’t want to go. I really didn’t.

The next 5 years would be the hardest, most miserable, most terrifying, troublesome, difficult and challenging of my life. There would be many, many, many times I would be seconds away from packing my bags and disappearing. I had never been so sad, so depressed and felt so lost and helpless.

Those people, all of them who thought they were speaking for God, were wrong. Totally, absolutely, 100% wrong.

I felt like a victim for years about this. I felt that they were all to blame for this horrible life I found myself stuck in. They were responsible for making me be with this person to whom I wasn’t attracted, leaving everything I loved to follow God’s plan for my life.

This all changed when, 7 years after she had left me at the airport, my friend visited me and said words that made me so angry because they were filled with undeniable truth. I wasn’t a victim. I had made the choices all along. I made the choice to go. I could make the choice to leave. I couldn’t blame anyone but myself for staying and feeling trapped.

She spoke frankly with me and for the first time in my life, I actually felt like someone was talking to me adult-to-adult.

This year will mark the 10 year anniversary of that flight and as I sit here, writing this tale, the guy from New Zealand is in my kitchen cooking himself some eggs and watching “Dancing with the Stars” and we are happy.

We are happy because I made a choice. We are happy because he made a choice. We decided, together, that we were going to make this work, no matter what.

It’s true that we never had the “head over heels” romantic phase that most people do before they get engaged. We never went on dates. We didn’t get giddy over texts. We didn’t giggle with friends and chat about stolen kisses or the silly things being done during the wooing stage. We skipped all of that and went straight to the ‘married for 20 years, romance is dead, have to work on it’ phase.

And so, that’s what we did. We worked on it.

And, the most incredible thing happened-the further we got from the church, the healthier our relationship became. When we removed all of that unhealthy, outside influence, the added guilt and pressure to be something we’re not, and the expectation to fit into roles that didn’t suit us, we found that we really could enjoy being together. We went to counselling and with the guidance of someone who actually knew what she was doing, we worked on things together.

As I said before, I have spent years doing what others wanted me to do and believing that other people knew what was best for me-even more than I could know for myself until that autumn day, while walking the streets of Toronto my friend put me straight.

Today, I take great pride in my marriage because it has been forged with fire. Tested with tears and fights and moments where the desire to run hung as heavy in the air as an elephant would hang from a weeping willow.

This is our marriage. Our relationship. Our friendship. Our victory. It doesn’t belong to anyone else. It doesn’t belong to the church. It doesn’t belong to God. It doesn’t even belong to our counsellor. It is ours.

And, just as I couldn’t blame anyone else for where I found myself back then, I get to take the credit for where I am now.

“This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.” –(Hamlet Act-1, Scene-III, 78–81)

I am in charge of my own life.

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The Word Became Flesh

30 Wednesday Mar 2016

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When I was in my early 20’s I moved to Toronto.

For years I had been working towards becoming a minister in a non-denominational church. I had received acceptance into the school that would last 2 years and see me ordained as a minister upon completion of the training.

I had packed all my boxes and my current job contract was going to be finished in a couple of weeks when I received a letter from the school stating that they had decided to defer my acceptance for one year.

There had been a few young, single, women that had recently gone-through the training, found it all too much once they had been ordained, and crashed and burned within a few years of graduating. They were nervous the same thing would happen to me.

And so, I found myself sitting there, staring at the wall, wondering what I was going to do next.

I pulled-out my journal and pen, prepared to write my frustration, fear, anger, doubt and confusion when a pamphlet fell-out and fluttered to the floor.

The pamphlet talked about a rough area in Toronto where ‘real Christians’ were supposed to be. “Give a year-get a Life” it judged that what I was currently doing was not good enough. “The Word became flesh and blood and moved into the neighbourhood” – words from John 1:14 called to me promising the opportunity to become the living, breathing, word of God in a community that desperately needed it.

Within an hour I was dialing the 416 number, butterflies exploding within my stomach and my head spinning with nerves.

I spoke to a guy who sounded very cool and expressed interest in having me come and join the team. I was told that I would have a place to live and that they would help me find a job when I arrived. By the time the conversation was done, it was pretty much decided. I would be moving to Toronto.

With $500 in my bank account and a world of dreams in my heart, I headed for the city.

I was extremely young and naïve and it became painfully obvious within my first few days there that I was in way over my head.

I remember sitting in a meeting with the guy I had spoken with on the phone, the local minister of the organisation and the office administrator, barely being able to understand anything they were saying. They seemed to speak their own language, using words and expressions I had never heard before.

I sat there observing like a National Geographic photographer crouched in the grass, watching a pride of lions creeping upon a herd of gazelles.

I could barely get my head wrapped around it all.

Here I was. Young, inexperienced, uneducated, unprepared and ready to save the world.

The Word become flesh.

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In Such a Little Hand

21 Monday Mar 2016

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I sat down to write a couple posts, was listening to some good music, cuppa tea by my side and I got inspired. I pulled-out my guitar and wrote a little number. Here are the lyrics.

In Such a Little Hand

In such a little hand
There was so much love to find
The universe exposed
All brokenness made whole
In such a little hand

In such a little face
So much to explore
The day you formed the world
Beauty did restore
In such a little face

There were days we were soaring
There were days when we began to drown
Falling tears all felt more heavy
And laughter weightless as a cloud

Sunlight touched the skin more warmly
And the clouds were darker grey
The whole world opened up
In such a little hand.

In such a little foot
All the places it will go
To follow all your dreams
A million paths to take
In such a little foot

In such a little heart
A world where life is made
Where purest love exists
And no one is afraid
In such a little heart

I’ve finally found my place
In such a little hand

Life is Magical

19 Saturday Mar 2016

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I don’t know if it’s just me, but my mind is full of memories that seem to be filled to the brim with magic.

I’m not talking saw the girl in half or house of Gryffindor magic. But, I guess what I will call, movie magic.

These are moments and memories upon which I look back on and see them as if watching a beautiful film. Everything is perfect- the lighting, the mood, the script, the cinematography, the soundtrack- it’s all there.

My movie reel is beautiful. I love tapping into that part of my mind and just reliving these moments.

Most of them are bittersweet. Unrequited love, happier days long forgotten, a time when life was less complicated. But, it is so sweet to relive the moments and experience the thrill of the emotions that accompany each one.

I love reliving life in my mind. But, I am constantly questioning if I am living too much in the past. I have, until recently, spent a great deal of time simply wanting to go back.

The positive impact this life movie reel has had on me is that I have started to realize how beautiful, how magical, life really is.

I seek to be fully aware of each moment because, one day, these will be the magical times I think back on with nostalgia and wish I could relive.

I try to live the moment to its fullest the first time, so when I see it again years from now, I don’t feel sad that I hadn’t known how wonderful it was at the time.

I find myself yearning a little bit less for memories of the past and embracing the present moments, looking for every morsel of joy, love, wonder, imagination, beauty, emotion and magic that they have to offer.

This is life.

And, it’s not that bad.

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