My Metamorphosis

Egg.
Caterpillar.
Pupa.
Butterfly. 

I am writing in my blog after a personal hiatus of two years. Two years from hell. From hell and back, as the saying goes.

God doesn't give you a burden you cannot bear because His intent is for you to learn, grow and change.

It took me two years, but here I stand before you, flapping my wings.

Egg

Total burnout. Career, marriage, health. January 2017. You would not recognize me. I did not recognize me. Who am I? Why am I going through this?

Caterpillar

I'm crawling. At least I am moving. Not knowing where I am going. But inching slowly. Sometimes forward. Sometimes backward. The key objective was to move.

Pupa

They say a caterpillar turns to liquid before achieving the butterfly stage. I needed to let go of structure, limiting beliefs, and judgment. I let go of control. I became the water in the river that suddenly could flow freely, without a care and only with gratitude.

Butterfly

I am perched on a tree. Below me is the river. Some days it's calm and quiet. Other days, the river rages past me, with the wind and water slapping my face. But I am equipped for any day now. Because now I can fly. I flutter during the calm days and I soar above the turbulence. And I am grateful for the two years from hell.

This is my metamorphosis.

Ode to Me

Look inside
see who sits
waiting for light
building four walls
to protect, for safety
no light comes in
fortress fortified
feelings unjustified
shed light in each corner
open the window
soak in the rays
dissolve the barriers
enter at risk
face the door
turn the knob
too hot to touch
burn, burn, burn
to feel again
see who sits
with fire beneath
to feel again
this is my house
this is my life
Ode to me.

Being cruel to be kind

On a rainy, foggy day, she heard a song. After listening to it over and over, her voice expelled into the surrounding mist. There was no road. There were no cars. Only faceless lives that sped past her peripheral. And it was precisely then, she realized, what was whispering in the recesses of her mind.


Take your eyes off of me so I can leave
I'm far too ashamed to do it with you watching me
This is never ending, we have been here before
But I can't stay this time cause I don't love you anymore
Please stay where you are
Don't come any closer
Don't try to change my mind
I'm being cruel to be kind

Judgement Day

...and she lifts her head up ever, so slowly. Looking around, she evaluates the damage that has occurred. Is it too much to internalize? That is all she does. Internalize, analyze and judge. How can judgment be made by me, myself and I, she asks? Who is there to listen to the internal rumblings of a woman who can no longer accept the status quo? Her head is heavy, her heart is heavy, her soul is muddled. Only three people listen.


As she maneuvers through the meteorites of an unknown world, its like a Star Wars prequel in her universe. She must revert back to a time when the universe around her was readable.


A space where yesterday was but a nostalgic reminder of what can never be again. Repeatable. She cannot depend on time that ceases to be remembered. Is she enveloping a new universe? Must she mold it into a wondrous time that is yet to occur?


She looks out from her mind's eye and waits for a sign.

Drifting

Whatever happens, don't let go of my hand...MJ

Are you listening? Coz I have something to say.....

When the Universe does not respond accordingly, tell it what you want it to do.

Status Quo

It is more risky to stay status quo. Be the change.

Screw the Selfie - Listen to yourself

Self talk

There's no more important criticism than self criticism.


There's no amount of external validation that can undo the constant drone of internal criticism.

And negative self talk is hungry for external corroboration. One little voice in the ether that agrees with your internal critic is enough to put you in a tailspin.



The remedy for negative self talk, then, is not the search for unanimous praise from the outside world. It's a hopeless journey, and one that destroys the work, because you will water it down in fear of that outside critic that amplifies your internal one.



The remedy is accurate and positive self talk. Endless amounts of it.



Not delusional affirmations or silly metaphysical pronouncements about the universe. No, merely the reassertion of obvious truths, a mantra that drives away the nonsense the lizard brain is selling as truth.
 

You cannot reason with negative self talk or somehow persuade it that the world disagrees. All you can do is surround it with positive self talk, drown it out and overwhelm it with concrete building blocks of great work, the combination of expectation, obligation and possibility.



When in doubt, tell yourself the truth. --Seth Godin

Hope

I am inhaling the winds of change and exhaling the mist of time past.

It's all in one look

A smile is so sexy, yet so warm. When someone genuinely smiles at you, it's the greatest feeling in the world.

Everything sounds great and intellectual with a British accent

I am a little foggy, a little soggy....

The Thirst

Glass is always half full - but the contents are not always consumable...

My Sandbag Necklace

The things you dread the most are actually what sits heavily on your ability to move forward.

Signs

People are blind to the signs. Let your heart open your eyes instead.

Little Birdie

Sometimes there are days when I cannot articulate how I am feeling and then a little birdie sums it all up and the sky opens wide. Thank you, my little hummingbird....


The idea that toxic isn't defined by the presence of something negative but the absence of one's best.

Shortest blog post for a new year

It has been over a year and a half that I haven't posted. Squeeze me? Yeah, that's all I have to say. And this...

The most erotic thing is when a man massages a woman's mind. Take it and go.

Dancing with the Devil

Papa: "Where are you going dressed like that??"

Caught. But not so fast....

Me: "I am going to the movies with Becky."

Papa: pondering and rubbing his chin "What time will you be home? It should be before sunset."

Me: exasperated and rolling my eyes "I cannot align the timing of the movie with when the sun sets!"

Papa: "Are you arguing with me? Because if you are, you are not allowed out. And don't you roll your eyes at me, young lady!"

Me: pretending to be sweet and caring "Right you are Papa! I am wrong about the sunset time. But I will make sure to be home before 10pm"

Papa: "10pm?! You are going to run the streets at night like some common hoodlum, with no rules or edicate? Is this the reputation my eldest daughter must project? You will be a loose teenager, without morals and dignity, coming home at such a God awful time??" middle vein in forehead is now popping out and pulsating

Me: cursing under my breath and looking for my mother to step in...anytime Mama, your husband is driving me crazy "No Papa. We will go straight the theatre, watch the movie, and come straight home. You know Becky will get me home at a respectable time...I promise!!" ringing my hands with desparation and trying to stand with good posture and a demure smile

Papa: raising one eyebrow and thinking intently with an intimidating stare "Fine, but if you arrive home one minute past ten, I will ground you for a week and make you organize the newspapers!"

OMG--not the newspapers. Normal people threw them out the same day after reading. Not my father. He collected three months worth of papers and made us chronologically order them with the pretext that he was looking to cut out his favorite articles (he never did). All organized just to be thrown out. Bloody hell.....

Papa: "OK go. But don't embaress me at the theatre. Someone may know you."

Score!!!!

I grab my purse and exit the house before he changes his mind. Becky is waiting outside her house in her car. I jump in the passenger side and signal her to leave in the direction of the theatre as I can see my father staring out the side window at us.. I quickly instruct her to turn down a street to my school, out of my father's sight. We make it to the school, where the dance has already begun. We 'high five' and I jump out and ask her to pick me up at 9:45.

Homefree.

I walk in and the dance is already underway and I meet up with two of my school friends who are in the corner, sipping soft drinks and giggling quietly at the couples slow dancing on the floor. We stand and watch, hoping to be asked to dance but knowing full well no boy in his right mind would even fathom the idea of asking us. We would dance the fast songs, trying to get close to the boys but they see us coming a mile away and beeline towards the 'popular' girls who wear tight Jordache jeans, legwarmers, revealing tops and feathered hair. I pushed up my glasses to prevent them from slipping off my nose during fast songs.

Fast forward to 9:45. I run outside with my trusted neighbor waiting for me. Climb into her car, make it home at 9:55, run in the house, show my face to my father who is sitting in the living room, with the light on, pretending to read the newspaper I would be organizing a month from now.

Papa: "Why are you all sweaty?"

Me: thinking quickly "It was a scary movie and I got scared and broke out in a sweat."

Papa: grimacing and shaking his head "Why the hell are you watching scary movies? You won't sleep all night, then be tired the next morning and insist on missing school! Did I allow you to see a scary movie? Is this movie rated PG? Because if its AA (adult accompany) I will ground you right now on the spot!!"

Me: "I saw a PG-13 movie. It was a cartoon..."

Papa: "Ohhhhh, ok. Cartoon is acceptable as long as there is no nudity..."

Wha???

I go upstairs and close the door. I hug myself and laugh. That was too easy! I'm snuggling in my warm bed when he whips my door open an hour later, with an all-knowing look, with the newspaper under his arm.

Papa: "You think you are REALLY smart, don't you" wagging his finger at me with one hand on his hip.

Caught. Damn.

Me: "But Papa, you don't understand. You need to let me be a teenager and try everything. It doesn't mean I am bad..."

And I thought it was so easy. My game was up. I was caught and would be grounded for the rest of the school year and monitored. How did he find out? Did he follow me?

Me: "I promise, I won't do it again...its out of my system...I didn't dance...."

Papa: interrupting "So you thought you could trick me, didn't you? You think you are smarter than your father?!?!"

Me: "No Papa, but I have needs...."

Papa:"Needs? There is no horror cartoon showing! shaking the entertainment section at me...You watched an AA movie with nudity didn't you? Why you need to see naked people? Shame on you. I swear you go out at night and the devil follows you!"

I lifted my blanket to cover my smile. It really was all too easy.....

Teacher Preacher

A teacher can make or break you.

I remember seeing my teachers as non-human. Running into them outside of school left me feeling strange. They had lives too? They shopped for groceries, put gas in their cars and had families of their own? But during the school year, they were a steady fixture in the classroom, a part of my daily life. They represented an extension of my parents who would help me overcome my hardships as I tried to fit in an ever-changing environment that continually sucked me in and then spit me out.

Teachers were there to help the ones continue to perform well and give additional support for those who struggled to grasp the concepts.

Grade 7 was one of my best years. Mrs. Peacock-Snider was my homeroom teacher. She loved my work and I received constant public praise for all my subjects. However, all Hell broke loose when it came to Math and my life seemed to turn down a dangerous path. Our homeroom class always had a different Math teacher every grade. And I never seemed to be paired with the right one.

Mr. Rhodes was probably the most popular teacher in our elementary school--all the kids loved him, and initially, so did I. He was extremely witty, funny and engaging in the classroom. He made our class fun and enjoyable. But it took half a year to realize that his treatment of me differed from the rest of the class. And I started believing that there must be something wrong with me if everyone else loved him.

No matter how hard I tried to impress Mr. Rhodes, by studying hard, doing the bonus questions on all the math tests and staying after school for extra help, I never fell into his good books. I tried my best to achieve the highest marks in his class but I fell short. Everyone else understood the concepts and teaching methods but, alas, I struggled the whole year. I finally came to grips that my mind just didn't work that way. And it didn't help feeling ostracized on top of that.

"Mr. Rhodes, I just don't know why I get Bs every test! I study hard, come for extra help. I guess I really don't get it," I remarked one day after school. There was one other girl waiting with her Math book under her arm while I spoke. I scratched the mop on my head and adjusted my glasses. Tara brushed aside her lovely blond hair, and fluttered her blue eyes while smoothing her stylish clothing. I looked down at my ratty sweater, green pants and three year old running shoes that were one size too small.

I could tell he wanted to brush me aside so he could focus on Tara. "It's because you are lazy," he announced, avoiding eye contact, while my own eyes widened with shame. I had nowhere else to look. Was he testing me? Was he challenging the truth? I shrunk a little more. He was six feet tall and normally not menacing. That day, he seemed exasperated with me and wanted to move the conversation on.

"I am not lazy. You should see my other marks. I have the highest mark in Grade 7 in every other subject," I lowered my head so he could not see my tears.

"Well then apply the same study habits to Math as you do those subjects," he said and then turned gingerly to Tara and asked her sweetly, "What can I do for you?" He continued to ignore my presence as I waited, not realizing his last statement was a signal for me to leave. Mr. Rhodes proceeded to the blackboard to work through an equation she was stumped on. I watched how he carefully mentored her with support and encouragement until she grasped the concept. He was patient and caring--no sign of the brisk abruptness he exercised with me.

Age twelve is a young age to be disgusted with the human race, but that day was one of my lowest points in my elementary career. Too young to understand that having his approval was the not the be all and end all--however, yearning for teacher approval was like wanting your parents to hug and protect you.

Career aspirations and educational choices are directly influenced by teachers. Many have lost the passion or truly enjoy what they teach. It has negative repercussions on their students. Maybe you disagree. A teacher, parent, mentor, manager or role model. Non-existent you say?

Without a doubt, Mr. Rhodes was a great teacher--just not for me, for reasons beyond my comprehension back then and today. Perhaps I was not the model child in his eyes, God only knows. Ironically, throughout the years, I never had a 'great' math teacher, who made me love fall in love with the subject or change how I processed the concepts. And perhaps my psyche subconsciously arouses negative feelings when I think of Math because of him. Any excuse in the book?

I can tell a more positive story. And again, all it took was one teacher.

Many years ago, I switched my major in University from Sociology to English because of one tutorial assistant, Grant, who taught my first year English course that summer, off-campus. I took English as an elective course, only to fill my schedule. In short, Grant changed my destiny.

"You may not get it now, but you are on the road to greater things..." he said to me, looking me squarely in the eye, one night after class while I watched him red pen all over my first essay. He never degraded my efforts or told me I was lazy. Instead, he saw a small light and he illuminated it with his kind eyes and encouraging voice. I knew then, what he told me was the ultimate truth, to no gain of his own.

Years later, when I was the first up on stage to receive my Honours Degree in English Literature, all while finishing top of my class with High Distinction and on the Dean's list, I looked out in the crowed to my father, husband and in-laws, who were smiling and applauding wildly.

But in that moment, I could only remember Grant. He stayed with me all those years as I struggled and toiled through all my classes, balancing a family, work and school, up all hours of the night, revising and reviewing my essays. And I kept hearing his soft voice ringing in my ears, year after year, pushing me to finish and in the end, achieve greater things.

A teacher can make or break you. It's ok. I chose the right road--and I wrote it...with his help.

The Sheik(h)

Ok, by far, this has to be one of the MOST EMBARRESSING moments in my elementary career. And yes, I am about to share it with all my blog readers. It took many years to get over this incident, but now I can look back and fondly reminisce about this innocent experience. Really, its ok. And quite funny....

It was Grade 7. I was 12 years old. I was still unpopular at this point but slowly gaining acceptance and respect for my rebellious ways. While my parents begged me to stay under the radar, I continued to believe that being myself would win people over in the end.

It was a sunny spring day. A gaggle of girls ran in from outside, talking incessantly and running past me to their lockers nearby. I noticed their excited expressions and secret giggles. I gathered something had happened outside. I walked over nonchalantly, trying to extract the gist of their conversation but they spoke in low tones and ignored my looming presence.

"Did I miss anything at lunch outside?" I asked innocently, looking at my nails and then back up at them.

The ringleader of this group was Amazon Wendy, who towered over me and was built like a linebacker. She was about to brush me off when suddenly a lightbulb went on. She first eyed me suspiciously but then smiled a big, toothy grin. She leaned into me as if to share the secret I so longed to be a part of.

"Did you see it?" she asked.

"See what??" I inquired, with wide eyes and a smile to match hers. My ears were pricked. Her cohorts moved excitedly behind her.

"The Sheik. Its outside. We saw it with our own eyes. I can't believe it!" Wendy exclaimed.

My mind was racing. I stood dumbfounded for a good minute, smiling gleefully, with no idea of what she was talking about. Wendy grabbed her books from her locker and spun around for class. I looked at my watch. I had exactly five minutes to work this out in my brain. The girls were laughing and shoving each other, either proud to have seen what they saw outside or from the fact that I was about to be duped. They all left except for one girl who overheard the conversation and was watching from behind her locker.

"Did you see (the) Sheik outside," I asked her. She nodded slowly.

"Do you want me to show you?" she asked.

I stood with trepidation in one spot. So folks, here is the picture my brain presented me with:

An Arab Sheikh was outside, with flowing white robes, a long beard and a keffiyeh tied to his head.
I thought to myelf, why would he be outside my elementary school at lunchtime? Was he someone's father, grandfather or was he visiting the school to decipher whether or not he should donate his millions?

The girl grabbed my hand and led me outside. She took me to a wall and pointed.

"There is the Sheik!" She covered her mouth as she gasped with laughter. I stood staring at a rubbery substance stuck to the wall, not comprehending what I was looking at. The girl ran off and I was left alone grappling with uncertainty. I am sure some of my male readers are now smiling a sly smile. But of course, what was a 12 year old girl, with limited experience, to think of the situation at hand?

I spun around, figuring she was pointing at the wrong attraction but my Arab Sheikh was nowhere to be seen. It dawned on me that the girls were referring to this object, stuck to the wall. I scratched my head and took a closer look. I remember thinking to myself that it looked like a mini-net for catching fish. I stepped back and turned to go to class. I was already ten minutes late. As I sat there for the rest of the day, I looked out the window, looking for the Arab Sheikh that was never there. After school when Wendy asked me if I saw it, I noddedly slowly and displayed a crazed smile, emulating their actions from before to show some kind of solidarity that I yearned to be a part of.

"Mama, I have to ask you a question!!" I yelled as I bounded into the house. My mother was not stunned or affected by my outbursts because there were so many at spontaneous times that she had grown accustomed to my style of inquiries.

"What is a Sheik?" She looked up from her sewing machine with thread coming out of her mouth.

"Its an Arab man who is usually from the Royal family. He is rich and wears a white robe," she responded and went back to her sewing.

"Does he carry this?" I opened up my Math book and there lay between the pages the very condom that was stuck to the wall.

I have never seen my mother turn the colour of scarlet red until that day. I could have sworn she was close to fainting. She ran like a mad woman discarding 'The Sheik(h)" from my Math book into the garbage and then scrubbing me in the bathtub until my skin was raw. I pleaded with her that I did not touch it with my hand and used a protractor to peel it off the school wall, but she would not listen. Instead, she invoked the name of God and mumbled prayers under her breath to bring me back to a purified state.

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, was my introduction to my first condom.....

Win some, Lose some

The awareness of one's body usually coincides with puberty. You go through many changes and you compare those changes to that of your peers. I noticed the difference of my skin colour much earlier than that -- only because it illicited stares and unwanted behaviour from others outside of my inner circle that I deemed odd or strange.

And that was the crux of my problem. Initially, I grew up innocent enough thinking that everyone else had the problem and not I. However, puberty does crazy things to the preteen mind and I came to the conclusion that everyone was perfect, except me. Physically. Thank God it was only a superficial affliction. Deep down, I knew I was one step ahead in terms of maturity and intelligence. But not intelligent enough to convince myself that I was just as pretty as everyone else, in my own hairy way.

God blessed me with an over-abundance of hair. And what made it worse was that the fairer I became, the more noticable the dark hairs were. Growing up dark hid the hair, ironically. Much to my father's relief, my skin colour slowly began to 'improve' over the years and I stayed more indoors to study, read and write, rather than run rampant through the streets.

I was endlessly teased from Grade 6 to 8 about my unibrow, moustache and hairy arms. Literally, I was one walking fur ball. And to make matters worse, while every girl was conscious about growing her boobs, I was already given that asset at age 12. I was the second largest in my class, behind the 6 foot tall tomboy,Wendy. No one dared to mention her chest size in her presence for fear of retaliation. Wendy had already beaten up a few boys in our class when they mentioned that her boobs resembled the dodge balls we used in gym class.

Most girls were stuffing their bras (padded bras were non-existent at the time) with tissues or socks to get the attention of the jocks in class. Instead, my mother was trying to find ways to hide mine. At one point, she insisted that I use the same bandage that she used for her wrist. It made me look flatter but the bulge above and below the bandage was worse. I cried and told her I was cursed. Nevertheless, that was the least of my worries. While every girl in class envied my boobs, my unwanted hair was more of a distraction.

"Hey Sexy Lady! You are rocking it today but you forgot to shave!" The boys would laugh as I hid behind my locker door. I buried my head inside and regretted the day I was born. One boy came up to me asking for my notes from the previous day because he skipped school. My first inclination was to hand them over for him to photocopy, but he was one of the worst culprits when it came to teasing me about my looks. I shook my head in defiance and closed my locker door.

"Will you go to the dance with me tonite? I need a date for my sister. She loves moustaches!" he yelled after me. I kept walking, trying to ignore him while the tears stung my eyes. I would never be pretty enough.

I looked in the mirror and studied my reflection. I locked the bathroom door in case my parents came in and laid out the tools on the counter. I took off my glasses and saw a fuzzy girl looking back at me. The lack of vision made it better. I could not see my unibrow or moustache. My teeth were crooked and my french braids were outdated. I needed to change.

After many years of my mother telling me how beautiful I was and not to change what God had given me, I finally bowed down and succumbed to peer pressure. I would never fit in until I looked the part.

I took the razor and brought it to my face but immediately dropped it on the floor when I heard my mother trying to pick the lock to the bathroom door.

"What is going on in there?!" she whispered loudly, so not to wake my father. She jimmyed the lock with her hairpin and found me standing with shaving cream in my hand and the razor on the floor. She almost fell over at this sight.

"If you are about to do what I think you are going to do, I am going to ..." she exclaimed.
Instead of finishing her sentence, she picked up the razor and took the cream out of my hand. She examined the counter. Magnifying mirror, eyebrow plucker, scissors and rubbing alcohol. I sheepishly looked down at the floor. Why did I go on the physical traits of my father? Why didn't God give me her gene pool? She was beautiful. Fair, a small delicate nose, naturally sculpted eyebrows, killer cheekbones and not one hair on her face or body. I watched how her hands moved with precision to pick up all my instruments and remove them from my possession.

"Now, if I EVER see you touch these objects, I will disown you. The minute you put that razor on your face, you will have a lifetime of hair to deal with. Do you want to join your father every morning to shave? There are other ways to remove your hair. But now is not the time. Wait until you get married," she explained.

I nearly fainted on the spot. Wait until I am married? Who wants to marry the bearded lady at the circus?

"Mama, I need to change. All the boys pick on me at school and even the girls don't want to associate with me. All they ask me is what exercises I do at home for my chest!" My mother shook her head disapprovingly.

"I told you that I love you just the way you are. And people need to accept you as well." I didn't buy her explanation. I needed to act fast.

The next day, I unravelled my french braid and looked at my bum-length hair. I took me exactly half the school year in Grade 7 to convince my father to allow me to cut it professionally. I had to manipulate and bribe him at the same time. And it worked in my favour, for the time being.

Lie #1:

"My hair is too long and it gives me headaches. That is why I only have a 'B' in Math. If you let me cut my hair, I will bump my mark to an 'A'. I promise." I hated Math and my father knew I was not interested in increasing my mark. His only wish was for his eldest daughter to have straight As that year.

Lie #2:

To achieve Lie #1, I convinced a flat-chested, brainiac classmate to tutor me before every test so long as I told her my secret of how to attain big boobs. I had no clue what that was but I knew I could come up with some 'innovative exercises.' Something to do with massage....

We went to Magic Cuts and I asked for my long, unruly hair to be cut, shoulder-length in layers which was the latest fashion. Later that day, I allowed my next door neighbor to multiply my "upper moustache" into a pair of identical, precise brows.

To top it off, I spent my piggy bank money and bought hot wax from the local drugstore and ripped off my moustache in three takes. Luckily I had the weekend to recuperate the swollen upper lip as a result of my failed attempts. But I eventually got the hang of it.

My mother cried when she saw me. Her message was foreboding. "This is not the end. It will go on and on..." I had no clue what she meant but I would soon understand what she meant.

That night, I looked in the mirror and was taken aback with the results. I did not recognize myself but was pleased. I imagined I would win over my enemies at school. I didn't sleep the entire night out of sheer anticipation.

When I arrived at school the next day, I was met by gasps and stares in the hallways. People were whispering to themselves and I saw some nods of approval. I walked confidently to my locker and went to class. Wendy walked straight up to my desk. She had a menacing look on her face and I cowered slightly in her presence. She bent down to face me.

"Nice hair," she remarked and then returned to her seat. I smiled hesitantly. Another girl sitting close by overheard Wendy and soon chimed in. "You look so different but you look nice," she said. I bit my lip so not to cry with joy. Even my teacher commented on my new hairstyle. I was a whole other person. Finally. To be accepted. I had a glimpse of hope.

I walked back to my locker with a gaggle of girls gushing around me. Some were touching my hair, others were examining my upper lip while others tried to find out who did my eyebrows.

At the end, 'happiness is a photo, not a movie' and my fame was short-lived. 

"Your boobs are so big, your eyes are black from running!" a boy yelled from across the hall and the rest of his clique snickered and laughed.

Mama was right... so why did I expect more? I got a B+ in Math that year and my classmate stopped talking to me after remaining an A cup until the end of Grade 8.

Win some, lose some....