Bird by Bird

The books that sailed the seas to my front door arrived today. 5 days earlier than expected. Isn’t that awesome? “Bird by bird” by Anne Lamott is one of the books sprawled over my desk, thanks to Amazon. Mere touch tells me this book contains hidden treasures just for me. Treasures I haven’t even dreamed of. Oh, I can’t wait to dig my nails in to uncover them.

On the back cover she wrote this: “Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to a get report written that he had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arms around my brother’s shoulder and said, ‘Bird by bird buddy. Just take it bird by bird.’”

These beautiful words brought two things to mind. Unfortunately these two thoughts are on the opposite side of the spectrum. My first thought was, why couldn’t my parents understand that I had to make mistakes to grow and learn life‘s lessons. Instead of been given this loving response, I was nearly always rebuked. Stressing out is what I did (do) best. That itself was punishment enough. I remember so well all the times I was rebuked for something, stressed about it, needed support, and when the results came, I got reprimanded all over again. The entire, lengthy speech was repeated.

My second thought was far more pleasant as it involves something I’m striving to be. I want to be the kind of parent that will do what Anne’s father so lovingly did. It takes a special person to realize that he (Anne’s brother) had already learned his lesson and what he needed was support. At the age of ten you cannot expect a child to have the same degree of responsibility of an adult. Lessons are valuable and so darn necessary, so is support. I can gladly say today that I’m married to a wonderful husband who is entirely selfless when it comes to my need for support. I’ve seen him do many things most women only dream their husbands would do. He is not without his faults, otherwise he wouldn’t be human.

I married a gem. A bright, sparkly, shinny, and extremely precious gem.

I’ve made many mistakes, but the learning process got diverted and I didn't get the opportunity learn the lesson appropriate to the mistake. All I learned was that if something isn’t perfect or done correctly that I can only expect hardship and suffering. I even managed to so wrongly believe that if I do something wrong I will be punished every time and that forgiveness doesn’t exist. I’m still reminded of many things I did wrong. I wish I could say that these brief 'mentionings' are done in a loving, caring and humorous spirit, but alas.

Today, I carry with me this debilitating fear which origin is mainly unknown. I wish I could stuff it in a box and send it packing, but it always escapes me and bite me in the ass when I turn my back.

Love can heal this fear. And only I can tap into the kind of love that exists somewhere in abundance. My husband’s love for me is food for my soul, but the love I need so desperately is water for my soul. And right now, I’m parched.

Who dare cast the first stone?

Before you judge my writing to quickly, or should I rather say, before I judge My writing too quickly there is something I need to tell you. English isn't my first language and it's only been 7 years since I learned how to speak it fluently. If you imagine a child growing up in an English household learning to speak from the age of two, my English theoretically equals to that of a 9 year old. Considering I know a few BIG words (ostentatious, whimsical, dariole, nyotalpia and of course I know the meanings) this improves my verbal and written age considerably. I would say 18, 19 are good numbers? What do you think? What age do you think my English grey matter is? Please try not to burst my bubble. Be kind, OK!

Bearing all of this in mind, there are always room for improvement. This is the only time I wish I was "older." Therefore I'm pretty pleased to announce that I have committed myself to one year of studying Creative Writing at the Open University. After studying 5 years at University level, I'm rather tired, but what the heck. I'm only 30 and I really, really, really want to write. REALLY!

I = Procrastinate

I = Procrastinate. Procrastinate = Me

Procrastinate is defined by Dictionary.com as "To defer action; delay or to put off doing something, especially out of habitual carelessness or laziness." Procrastinate is something I do well. For example, my dearest, darling sister-in-law (and no, you didn't catch a hint of sarcasm, I love her to bits) is visiting me (ok, us) this weekend and if you read my earlier post on the cleanliness of my kitchen floor you would understand if I tell you I simply HAD to paint the bedroom she'll be sleeping in. You have got no idea the kind of mess I am talking about. I could see TWO different colours beneath the creamy layer of paint. And it's not the earthy, neutral colours I have chosen for the linen. Go figure, blue and purple. It's bad enough that I have to deal with a blue carpet.

Make no mistake. Colour makes my heart sing, but then it must be applied by someone who knows the do's and don'ts of colour matching. I'm no fundi, but I do know when something looks awful. To the previous and previous-previous owners: money cannot buy you style!!!!

I had three quiet weeks to paint this room. And I'm ashamed to admit that I only started the painting process this morning. And all just because I procrastinate. When will I ever learn that it doesn't pay off? It's like a sore tooth you refuse to have pulled only because you are too lazy or scared to visit the dentist. It's going to hurt doesn't matter which why you decide to go.

I'm glad to say the painting job is almost done.

That said, the only reason why I'm writing this post is because of procrastination. I've been procrastinating about writing. Period. It's something I so terribly want to do, but because my inner critic is beating, kicking and drowning every sentence, I just can't get myself to pick up a pen and write. So there you have it. This is my post to get out of this terrible habit, rut, laziness or just plain fear, which ever way you choose to see it.

PS: This is normally the part where I promise you and myself I'm going to write a little everyday. This is also the part where I bite my tongue for putting myself in a position where I have to deliver on my promise. Nevertheless, maybe I should try.

I pretend...

it doesn't hurt.

I pretend I don't care.

I answer the questions untruthfully and with a smile.

I keep my tears for my solitary pillow.

Icky, Yucky, Grimy, Slimy stuff (Not exactly Sublime Rapture!)

We’ve just moved into a new house and recently I had a good look at my kitchen floor and realized that even though I’ve been washing it, there are really bad grime spots. I’ve known they are there but always thought that it will come clean with the washing. I’m not particularly one for scrubbing on my knees. But I realized very quickly this floor is not going to get clean. So I used diluted bleach according to instructions. Still, nothing. Do you know I had to use PURE UNDILUTED F*ing bleach to lift the grime? 1 liter of bleach, 1 mop and 1½ hours later and I still didn’t finish the floor. The mop gave in first. The bleach would’ve been second. And my lungs are very unhappy with me, even though I opened up all the windows. I’m convinced that the previous owners never washed this damn floor. And I really mean NEVER. We get these nifty floor wipes that you put under your mop and clean your floors with and it’s really quick. I’m flabbergasted. I will apparently see them soon and I tell you I’m hiding…I’m not home…I’ve lost myself in a safe, grime-free, germ-free, crap-free and prettily painted corner of my mind (if you find me please send me home). It’s just that I’m worried I’m going to say something horrible and I want to avoid an upsetting conversation with them.

It is hard work cleaning the house, but the basics takes me 3 hours/day (please consider I’m cleaning a rather large house for two people and I really wasn’t made for ironing). And I'm one of those few disturbed people who is pedantic enough to use a toothbrush to clean hard-to-reach places. I know, I need to get a life. Ok, I feel better….No wait…, wait……NAH I'm OK.

I’m sure the bleach got to me and disturbed my otherwise well behaved self, so I’m going to say goodbye before I write something stupid.

See the difference between the light and dark? You can still see the splashes from the bleach. Eewwee!

My poor, poor mop. It didn't last very long!

Beautiful Rain

Despite a disturbed night, listening to the blinds rattling while I'm drowning in the knowledge that my windows are supposed to seal tight enough not to let a breath of air through, I'm up early. It's raining and I have to stop myself from going outside and let the pearly rain drops wash over me.

My heart becomes giddy with glee and excitement takes up residence which sometimes leaves just as eagerly.

Rain nourishes me. It slows me down and keeps me inside where it's warm and cosy. It cools down the earth in summer, feeds the plants when they're thirsty and cleans them to help them breathing. The biggest blessing of all is, every time it rains God is smiling down on me. His special words to me are:

"Here my child, these pearly rain drops are just for you. I give you live. I want what's best for you. I give this rain to the plants and animals so they may feed you and give you pleasure when you look outside onto your garden and the fields. I let it wash over the earth to feed and clean it, so you may live. I give you rain, to slow you down. You're to hasty, slow down. Take time to notice the beauty and glamor of nature after the rains. Slow down, take notice, you're too busy."

This is my blessing. This is Sublime Rapture.