A River Runs Through

'The Lady of Shalott' - John William Waterhouse

2014, or the start of it at least, is going to be a year of acceptance - I can tell already. Sometimes the universe throws things at you and you can never fully understand why. It's in the asking Why where we drive ourselves mad. I have been reminded of that fact time and time again, but somehow it's a need that we as humans forget how to deal with very easily. Loss is the most awful thing we face on this earth because it feels so un-natural. Like some greater force lied to us. You worked for it, you deserved it. But then it is stolen. Un-fair, right? You love someone, they are taken away. Why? You desperately desire something, and it is held back from you. No rhyme or reason. After trying to blame yourself, your friends, your family, your community, the wind - all you feel is the injustice of it all. 

Blame is never a satisfying game because it isn't the answer. It seems there isn't an answer at all. But we do always have the choice of how we deal with our loss. The thing/person/love we wanted so badly is taken from us. Gone. It's time to accept that and realize that the world still has more to offer.

I see my life as a journey on a small riverboat. I started out on a river that was so great and fast and peaceful and lush and beautiful that my reality was wrapped up in it. I understood the ebbs and flows of it. It was all I knew, and all I ever wanted to know. But then, suddenly, I was taken off the river onto an offshoot. A stream that led in a different direction to the one I was watching, expecting, enjoying. The currents swirled and the boat was bumped around and as I stared back desperately at my precious river, I could not understand why it had been taken away from me. I fought and rowed, was thrown around, exhausted, suffered and bled. It was cold and dark and terrible. But hard as I tried, I could never get back up to the main river. 

After a long time, days and nights, ups and downs, the offshoot meandered through enough dense vegetation that I could not see the greater river anymore. Every glimpse was gone, even in the remnants of my dreams. I gave up. It was devastating. A kind of bitter sadness I can't even explain. My gut was hollow. My ears numb. I mourned that river because it was meant to be mine, right? So much happened on that river. Everything was so perfect and calm. I thought all my happiness had been stolen from me in that one, irreversible moment. But after a while, I realized that if I looked left and right, there were these beautiful flowers all alongside the new river I had joined up to. And butterflies - massive, bright butterflies. I had never seen such things before. Such beauty and diversity. It was all new to me, and I realized that I was facing the wrong way in the boat, staring backwards into the past, searching an ever-fading horizon for the lost river, and missing what was around me. 

I turned around and looked ahead, only to find that the new river was just as glorious, just as bright and full of amazing things as the old one, even having a few new things for me to enjoy that I had never seen before. I decided to accept it. After all, I was still here. I had time on my hands, and I still had my oars. I still had my boat, and my boat was here, so I may as well join it. I thought about my old river still, but only some times and only because the human mind loves to wonder about things. Perhaps there had been a waterfall at the end of that river? Perhaps I was better off on the new one.

Whatever the reason, I accepted and set up camp, as it were, in my boat. Settled in and made myself comfortable again. Rowing to keep on course and to miss the few protruding rocks that popped up every now and then, enjoying the new until it became the normal. I was happily flowing along for a long long time, and then it happened again. 

Just when my sights were set on the future, a swirl I didn't see coming threw me off course into another unknown. Rapids and turbid water. But as the wild sting of the unforgiving torrents thrash at my face, I know it will be OK. I have been in a place like this before. I know that this time, I will not face the wrong way. I will try not to glance back too much, but rather look forward. My river has changed paths again, and it's not my fault or anyone's around me. There is no Why. Why is a stupid question for an experienced off-course boat-person like myself, after all. Asking 'Why' is only looking backwards, facing the wrong way, trying to find answers I am not going to get while on this earth. All I have is faith, hope, trust, and my little boat. And my oars. I know that if I paddle myself smoothly down this uncomfortable stream, it will once again lead me to a new river, and I know that it will be OK. It is my new path and I accept it.

Acceptance can be a beautiful thing, though not easy. It is like learning a new piece of music on the piano - one that is harder than before, and the learning curve causes all kinds of frustration. But when I get past that uncomfortable part, the new learned song is so rewarding, not only for me, but also for those around me who get to enjoy the beauty of the song too as I play it.

Bring on 2014. I am stronger than before and am ready for my new beautiful river, whatever it may have in store for me. I can do this.

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

The Science of Shoes

It's no secret that I love shoes. From childhood dreams of ruby slippers to my most recent purchase of Steve Madden boots, shoes have been a constant source of excitement and pure idolatrous happiness in my life. But not all shoes are equal.

When standing there in the Steve Madden store, purse in hand, contemplating buying this latest pair, I wondered to myself: Why these boots? Not that anyone should ever need a reason to buy something as fabulous as these tasseled beauties, of course, but I couldn’t help stop and go: Wait a moment. You always said you would never wear such high heels. So why these? They are 15cm's high! Is it the fact that they are Steve Maddens? (A brand I was introduced to by one of my favorite New York bloggers, Gala Darling, and who's picture of a particularly gorgeous pink pair has been the screen saver on my lap top for the past 3 years) Or is it because they are genuine suede, dove-soft, and have tassels? (I have a weakness for tassels - starting with a pair of boots bought a decade ago where I spent my rent money on them.) Is it simply that when presented with an image for long enough, even the abnormally insane can become acceptable and normal to the one perceiving it? 

(Jellies, anyone?) Or is it just a simple little bit of self-medication on a sad day?

 Let's backtrack shall we? Heels have never been a problem for me. Even in all my 6 feet of glory, I have loved the elevation and lift a pair of heels can give a girl’s physique. I feel that this boost has the ability to move beyond the physical, and acts as a sort of mood enhancer on any given occasion. But being 6 feet tall does add some complications to the wearing of extremely high heels. Doorways pose a problem. Even though making an entrance is always important, doorways are only generally so high, and I sometimes walk with a natural little bounce in my step. Bounce at the wrong moment with the 'wrong'/higher pair of heels on my feet and that is one entrance I don't want to make.

I saw these boots on a display with a lot of others. There were others that also had perfect arches, elegant compass worthy curves, decedent finishes. There were others a little lower with amazing scoops at the ankle line with the very best ankle to arch ratio, lovely stitching, sweet smelling leathers and colours. There were even others with tassels. But these particular boots spoke to me - almost reached out with invisible tentacles and drew me to them, as though casting a haunting mermaid song. 

This doesn't always happen. Sure it probably happens to me more often than most, but it doesn't happen with all shoes I ever come into contact with. And that is what got me thinking. Here is a pair of boots I don’t know that I will ever be able to wear out in public (for fear of concussions/breaking an ankle/intimidating Husband to the point of marital detriment) but I simply have to have them. I tried them on and they fit like a glove. Snug all the way up to the tip of the very last tassel! They were mine even before the gold card had a chance to swipe.

Some people say that angels speak to them or they hear voices in their heads? I hear shoes. There is an undeniable, underlying, otherworldly pheromonal attraction that happens with particular pairs of shoes that simply does not happen with others. 

That is when I realized it. Shoes must have an aura, something magnetic on a chemical level. It must be science. So not quite like gravity, but more specific – like the pheromones of a woman attracting a partner. Chemistry attracts us to people at all levels, makes us more comfortable with some and less with others. We choose friends based on this. We choose lovers. Doctors. We even choose teachers, when given the privilege to do so. It’s an invisible world of chemical attraction out there, and we are almost helpless to its currents and tides.

And so when presented with an invisible galactic wave, call it electrons and protons or what-have-you, of glorious tasseled suede Steve Madden's, I grabbed onto those babies and rode for all I was worth.

I am sure there is a scientist out there who can very eloquently disprove everything I have just said, but for now, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

December Moon

Moon - Sia

I watch you spin from afar
I drink you in and breathe you out

I'm camouflaged by the time line

I'm camouflaged when the sun shines

Two ships passing in, in the night
Two lips pressing ground the tides

I believe the world it spins for you
We will never be, you are the moon
I believe the world it spins for you
We will never be, you are the moon

I long to be a part
I isolate my heart

You've drawn me into your world
Now, I too spin limbless

One hand clapping, where's the wind
I stand spanning at your distant wings

I believe the world it spins for you
We will never be, you are the moon
I believe the world it spins for you
We will never be, you are the moon

I believe the world it spins for you
We will never be, you are the moon

(Words in italics changed)


Rest in peace my little December Moon
Cherry Blossom

A Tribute to Madiba

I am a white girl who was born in Boksburg in 1979. For those who don’t know, Boksburg was at the heart of the apartheid movement, and the laws governing that place were as vicious, oppressive and cruel as ever could be in our darkened history. I came from a poor family, but still a daughter of privilege in the sense that my skin colour allowed me access to the local swimming pool, public toilet, the library and to picnic and walk by the legendary Boksburg Lake. My happiest early childhood memories include train rides at the little park for children next to the Lake, winning a fancy paint-set at a Christmas colouring-in competition at the library, and long summer afternoons splashing freely in the pools. To the outside world, apartheid never affected me negatively as a child, but that is not entirely true. I was guilty of the sin of acceptance, albeit unconscious acceptance. I was taught by my societal surroundings that black people were not capable of keeping the lake clean, unable to respect the value of books and words, and, in horrifically extreme cases, taught by the church that blacks were the sons of Ham, who, according to the Bible, were cursed to live under the oppression of their white brothers forever - and it was their own fault. I accepted these teachings as a small child, never questioning them or the authorities who told them to me. I was a white child in South Africa, being taught to be a racist.

My parents were involved in missions, and opened a Christian school in the Boksburg town center. This was the only school there to have both white and black students attend together. And this is where I first noticed that something was not right. When my black skinned friends were not allowed to come with me to the library, I asked my mother why, and she explained to me that while it was wrong and an injustice, that the laws prohibited it because of their skin colour. This had me baffled. I could not for the life of me think what could possibly be different between my friends and myself – we played games, laughed and learned together. One of my friends had managed to get a hold of green nail polish and I thought it was the most fabulous nail colour I had ever seen. She was my hero! And she was just like me, surely?

But as I grew older, it was continuously reaffirmed to me that no, she wasn’t. She was black. Therefore inferior. It wasn’t her fault, it was her skin colour. We as white people could be kind, ‘un-racist’ and loving towards these lesser beings – we would open our homes to them when the fighting in Vosloorus (a local settlement development where black people were removed to in the 60’s under the apartheid regime) was too dangerous for them to go home – we could give them our old clothes and tins of food when they came begging, but we were, of course, by all accounts, the superior race. I lived in a protected bubble where I was not exposed to the true atrocities that were happening. But the curse of the privileged is the belief that we deserve our privilege, and others don’t. I was being gently coerced into being a delicately tailor-made racist. A nice one, but a racist none the less.

Mandela was released from prison when I was ten years old. I remember the hushed, outraged grumblings, talking about how ‘those’ people celebrated by breaking bus windows and causing a general destructive ruckus. How ‘they’ were celebrating the release of a terrorist. I heard, but I didn’t ask too much and carried on in my blissfully ignorant existence. What I of course didn’t realize yet was how much he had done, how tirelessly he worked to change those wrongs that had touched my little life so mildly, how he labored to save me from believing the racist lie, and how significant that day was to the entire nation.

In the years that followed, I learned much more of the man, and the monster, Mandela. Some of those who had my ear spoke of him in reverence while others spoke in hatred. South Africa was torn and I began to pay more attention. We moved to Cape Town, I hit my teen years, and I quietly started choosing who I believed and who I didn’t agree with when he was discussed. A family friend I used to hold in high esteem told a story of how he refused to shake Mandela’s hand. I decided that he, no matter how close a friend of the family, was an idiot.

Mandela became president, and though I was not interested in politics but rather honing a fondness for shoes, I could see all the good that was being done in his name. My Granny read ‘Long Walk to Freedom’ and often read out extracts to us. She had been a Boksburgian herself, but was thoroughly converted, discussing the importance and greatness of this man. We teased her by nick-naming her ‘Comrade Granny’, but I didn’t realize until later how those afternoons with her, listening to her in her bedroom, my own beliefs about racism and oppression were being shaped. He had done some terrible things, Granny explained, things that many people were not willing to forgive, (the same people, incidentally, who were more than happy to forget the terrible things that had been done to him and his family and friends first). He was fighting in a war I had not seen – a war for freedom. And he had done the time when convicted, coming out of prison with a more powerful weapon than before – Love. He forgave those who oppressed him, but did not accept the oppression and vowed to do everything he could for the freedom of ALL South Africans. Black, White, Coloured, Indian, Men, Women, Gay, Straight, Christian, Muslim, Jew – he committed the rest of his life’s work to the equality of us all. “For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.” And that is what made him such a great man.

I am so thankful for Nelson Mandela, for everything he did for our country. Not only did he open the gates to save the oppressed people, and open up our country to the world, but he saved me from a racist society that was surely seeping into my very core. He sucked the poison from me, offering his life for the freedom of us all. I am honoured to have lived in his time and to have been able to see some of the history and transformation happen first hand. I am blessed to have become part of the new privileged, privileged to live in his New South Africa, free to be free. My skin colour can not bind me to racism anymore, and if I choose, like him, to live the change I want to see in the world, his message and work lives on in me.

I do not like confrontation, I do not like to fight. I don’t have the courage and tenacity of spirit that he had. But if I can display even an ounce of the love he had for friends and foes alike, I will be able to do some good in this world too. And if there ever was a pair of shoes I would like to attempt to do my bit to fill, let it be those of the father of my nation.

“We can change the world and make it a better place. It is in your hands to make a difference” – Nelson Mandela

Rest in Peace, Tata Madiba.

Cherry Blossom