When Spirit speaks

I knew when she kicked me out, my mother was seeing a sadness, reflected through me, that she couldn’t face that day. She had kept it hidden so long that when the beast became unburied, she could not stand it; could not hold her gaze long enough to look it in the eye. But letting me go, though not without battle scars left from that day, created space for everything that would happen afterwards, to transform. Not immediately, and not always easily. But change came, and when it did, She took my mother with a fierce force, rescued her from her grief, soothed the aches of trauma that had seeped itself into her bones and invited her to breathe again. She swept her up into her arms, held space for her gently, and loosened the taps so the build up of her emotions that formed cancer cells in her uterus, could now flow. So that from the backlog of murky waters, clear streams of consciousness would now be known. I wasn’t there when the floodgates opened for her, yet somehow I know that day well.

I don’t know how old I was when I was first violated but I know the country I was in and I remember it was by my cousin. I don’t remember what car we drove, but I remember when my dad’s hands were not on the wheel anymore. He is alive, but his spirit wasn’t - and his hands were occupied by handcuffs. I don’t remember the last words Lebo said to me before she held her breath forever, but I remember that I was seventeen and the world that was ahead of me was tinted with darkness for longer than a little while. I don't remember what I was drinking that night, but I remember when the twenty-fourth of September became the day that I would mourn Nik for the rest of this lifetime. I don't know what time it was, but I remember the hour that I ran away from home, and then again I remember the day I crawled back crying months later, pride crumpling at my feet.

I know that I was 9 years old when I wrote my first "goodbye forever" letter, and I remember hiding it in between the peach and light pink undies in my top drawer. I don't remember what I wrote, but I remember I wasn't well. I don't know when the depression made its way into my home, but when the it came back, every time with a vengeance and its sidekick, anxiety, I knew it when I saw it. Creeping its way into comprehension through my apathy, I would wallow as I woke, instead of going to the toilet like I usually do - as if my body was rejecting all its usual outlets. On those days, I just closed my eyes again, waiting for it to be over. Hours later, when my eyes could be be shut no longer because my mind would yell too loudly, I'd move to the couch from the bed and wrap myself in a cloud of smoke and wouldn't eat a thing. This would go on for a while. Long enough until eventually I was dragged away from university by my sister who arrived with a bag of food and her ex boyfriend. I remember so well the pain of having to extend a leave of absence, a month after the extra month I had already received, because I was still catching my breath, forfeiting all the progress I had made on the road to distinction. And now, three years later, I still sometimes wonder what it all was for. And when I think I know, there is a myriad of experiences which have marked my coming and etched themselves into my aging. So I don’t remember which exact straw it was that broke the camels back, but I know it made the whole load fall. And I know that when Pandora's things are all over the floor, though I never know where to begin, I always pick them up.

These days, though, I don't carry them around with me in a bag that's too heavy to hold, for I have learned I sometimes have to let Pandora's pieces go. Instead, I take long moments to observe them so that they can strengthen me next time something similar happens. Surely enough, after every haul, I have noticed that with time and with much trial and error, I an able to transform my trials into a trail and my errors into air. And when the pieces transform into wisdom as I do, something whispers to me, over the roaring of anguish, to be still. "Something better is coming. This too shall pass."

So this is not a story of my mother, nor about those difficult days. This is a story about life's unfolding, and how perhaps, each moment is a defining moment. Especially when the spirit speaks.

I remember when I learned to love myself. I remember when love shattered the illusion that had been my life for so long. It wasn't in grand moment that you'd seen or read about before, it was in the slowing of, and coming to, of the very decisions it took to land me at today.

I remember when I made the bold move from conventional Maths class to Maths literacy ('easy' Maths) in my last years of school in South Africa - the decision as the high school version of social sacrilege. I remember when I said no to things I wasn't ready for, even when it meant waiting to have sex for the first time (and only one time in the later years of my university career), or witnessing my friends 'leaving me behind' when it meant saying no to things others were restless to try and that I wasn't ready for. These have more so, been my defining moments. It wasn't when I was in love (which I will tell you about) or when I was abused, or when my friends left the earth from their body, leaving their bodies to the earth. No. I remember when my spirit was louder than the voices around me, advising me not to do things when I wasn't ready form and preparing me for more prosperous steps that may lie ahead, if I so choose.

And perhaps the coming of age was discovering that I come with the earth. With stone ages, and ice ages and all the changing phases, we now enter the Age of Aquarian, depending on who we look at. I remember when the Aquarian full moon took my gran's breath away. I just moved to Portugal, and on the last night of her life, I remember having the choice between seeing the boy I was flinging with, or staying home to keep her company. Something subtle but strong arranged my mood to decide I should stay in tonight and the next morning, prompted me to record a conversation my gran and I had. I did not know at the time, it would be her last conversation, but listening to that whisper has allowed her last thoughts to live tangibly, even when she is not.

I remember when the depression came back. It was the eighth of June and I knew it because just as quickly as I opened my eyes in the morning, I shut them again. And so I remember writing a letter to change, because this time, the depression won't win. And so here is the letter;

though sometimes it is necessary

to reteach a thing its loveliness,

to put a hand on its brow

of the flower

and retell it in words and in touch

it is lovely

until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing - Galway Kinnell

Dear Change

I’ve always enjoyed a good letter so here I am, 23:57 on a Sunday evening, writing a letter to you. You’re exciting but daunting and always pop in when it’s least expected but you’re here now so I’m going to try my best to get to know you again.

Like many people, I have arrived at the land of writing late, confused and slightly scared. Change, you fell between my cracks trying to creep your way toward comprehension and recently, I have marvelled at your flexibility. I am a strong believer that everything happens for a reason and that the universe creates electrifying and calculated experiences for us that we may never understand and well, that’s where you come in.

Change, I’m still trying to figure you out. Sometimes you’re like the guest that comes over for a drink, empty-handed and already tipsy, leaving a trail of broken glass and tears behind you. Other times you’re the knock on the door that disappears before anyone hears you over the music. And at the best of times, you’re the guest that arrives with a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers, shedding laughter like petals on your way out.

Recently I opened my doors to you and let you in but like an unpredictably strong gust of wind on an Autumn afternoon, you knocked over my drink and flung a jammed door wide open. And even though I’m now drenched and messy, you have helped me rediscover the lover I forgot behind that door: writing.

As a Journalism student, I had to decide about the type of journalism I wanted to pursue at the end of 2016. Out of my specialisation choices of Communication Design, Writing and Editing, Radio, TV and Photography, I hesitantly chose Design. My decision was shaped by the opinions of everyone I asked around me and every day this year, I’ve tried to convince myself that I was happy and that I was doing what I was supposed to do. To be honest though, most days I felt discouraged, unfulfilled and ultimately, unhappy.

I’ve never been the type to run away from a challenge or an immense workload, but this time was different. It wasn’t that I wasn’t good enough (even though I felt that way most days), it simply boiled down to being more passionate about something else. Before making my decision to change from Design to Writing, I worried about upsetting my Design lecturer, upsetting my future, and disturbing the ebb and flow of my progress so far. I asked tens of people for their opinion and most told me to stick it out because I had come so far but at the end of the day, Change, I needed to listen to myself because I couldn’t get the sound of your incessant knocking out of my head. So, I declared five months of Design, done. I would start again, even though that meant catching up the writing credits. It seemed so silly to everyone and didn't make sense to most. But my writing teacher knew why.

I still don’t know what I want out of life, but I’m learning what I don’t want and that’s a start. So here I am, sitting eagerly on my bar stool with my wine glass, listening to a handpicked playlist, hoping that you won’t spill or change the song, but knowing that you probably will.

Yours always,

Tash. X

"No matter if it’s good or bad, change is one of the few things in life you can always rely on. Don’t fear it, but feel reassured: you won’t live the same life all along." —Tim K.

It was November twenty-fifth. I remember waking up to love (after verbally admitting it the night before) in the form of a slender and soft body. To green eyes that were in love with me and a warm chest protecting a heart of the purest, most radiant gold. We made love, as we always did when we woke up in synchronicity with the sun. The type of love that made me want to go out and dance and kiss strangers on the cheek and give them all my favorite things if I was wearing it and they liked it. I remember seeing 3:03 on the clock just a month and a half earlier. However this time, I was in love. It only took a month and a half for me to fall I love and when I did, the world opened up so much more. Cliche as it is, but I started to see how all along, whether it was Lennon or Legend, the Johns were right. Love is the most marvelous thing.

Today, the twenty-ninth of September, my mother, who now lives in a different country, and with a different last name and more children that became hers through marriage, undergoes her hysterectomy. Today, she gets the opportunity to remove that place that once created life but also harbored her pain. A part of her that was once my home (before the earth gifted me with breath and air) that is experiencing its death as we speak. On this same day, I wish my first love a happy birthday, except this time he is just my friend and we have somehow defied the cycles of heartbreak and separation. And while I'm unsure of the next destination, today, I share this very small slice of my story, that could never give you the full picture of me, but may satiate your interest into your own journey. For as I allowed the synchronicity to unfold, and for the magic to dispel doubt, I felt free.

A loving-kindness meditation for you:

May the discontentment dissipate.

May you and the universe co-create.

May the the stories now be told.

May you recongize your path

May you surrender to the next parts

May you open up your heart

May you surprise yourself along the way.