...with love all things are possible

Believe ...

Believe ...

Thursday, 20 February 2014

Your WRITE to Find Yourself

The more I write the more I find out about myself.  I never leave the page disappointed.  Well, I lie.  If nothing comes onto the page, then I leave disappointed. 

It’s not always easy.  It’s a question of pushing through the stubbornness and ploughing through the same random silly excuses.

Then all of a sudden I’m there.  I’m in that place where I begin to discover the real me that’s hidden, waiting, afraid almost, under all those layers of rules, conventions, society classes … layers of a world of cement that so often gave me a bum steer.

Never mind!  Today is a brilliant day and it’s time to share this gift.  I’ve been told over and over by those who have gone before me, that in order to keep it you have to give it away.  Share it. It's like love, the more you give the more you have to give.

This is not my invention and I don't attempt to take credit for it  – people have been doing it for centuries    but I’ve added my own twist.  A twist that comes from the experiences of my life, the places I’ve visited, the people I’ve met, the relationships I’ve had and those I’ve missed.  It comes from the words of other writers whom I have followed, observed and read. And it comes most especially from things I've failed at, my mistakes, blunders, and poor choices.

A beautiful student of mine of many, many years ago, Clarita Berenbau, died recently.  She was only 30 years old and had given birth to twin boys but never lived to see their first birthday.  Cancer didn't stop her; she made sure her life didn’t pass in vain.  She spoke out about living a full life with "it" and touched so very, very many people.

She will never know this, but her life and testimony have ignited a new level of passion in me.  Let this death not be in vain.  Let the lesson not pass unlearned.  This is but a beginning.

Sunday, 9 February 2014

Darling Mummy

A letter to my mother on the birth of her second child …

Darling Mummy,

For some mystical reason, I have felt the urge to dedicate my birthday to you this year and I’m proud to do so.  I have no memory of that day, nor of so many of the years that followed that day. So many questions.

Fifty-four years ago, you were wheeled into a sterile delivery room, alone, at the British Hospital, in Uruguay.  The outcome of your nine-month wait: another girl.  Everyone, and you included, had predicted a boy.  Everything ready was for a boy.  But I was a girl.

How did you feel?  I have wondered all day today … In my selfish act of growing up, chasing my teens, raising my own kids, and adding notches to the growth chart of my life, I never really thought about the fact that this day is just as much about you as it was about me.

I wondered all day today if – as you sat in your room bundled up against the horrible English winter – you had a flash of memory about that day, fifty-four years ago today when you became a mother for the second time. So many questions.

That’s something else I’ll never know, and it's OK, Mummy, because I don’t remember anything about that day either.  Maybe if I’d been smart enough, earlier, to ask you more questions, to be more curious, you might have told me more of your story.  I think this shows me that memories can sometimes be overrated – because even thought neither of us remembers, we’re both here.  So many questions.

Too late for questions now.  So, thank you, Mummy.  Thank you for going through whatever you went through to give me the gift of life and love.  You were and always be the most amazing, caring, loving and funny girl; brave and shy; stern yet fair; always interested in other people’s lives and ready to lend a hand - even today.  I love you always.  Noony xxx