Hold Tenderly Who You Are




Hold tenderly who you are
and let a deeper knowing colour the shape of your humanness


I can't remember who said this, it may have been Oriah. I don't always list the authors on the Stickies with scribbled messages that cover my Desktop [Apple-speak for electronic Post-it notes on my computer monitor, you philistines].

For those who don't know it yet - and that would be most of you - I spent the past two weeks in a mental health clinic. Three Saturdays ago I felt ready to leave this world and had the research, the means and the determination to do so. At the time it seemed like a totally rational decision. When one's options are reduced to (a) stay or (b) leave and (a) is unbearable, only (b) is left. It's perfectly logical.

It was in the process of writing and editing my letter (I wasn't gonna leave no bad writing behind) that a tiny grain of doubt infiltrated my resolve. 

Like a grass seed in your sock it starts off innocuous and grows into a real irritation. Pulling at the sock to shift the scratch never works. You have to bend down, find the spike and pull it out by its sharp end. Once you found one there are usually others. And you spend a little while at the side of the road, clearing grass seeds from your socks. You may even sit down and take off your shoes. And while you're sitting there examining your soles you're no longer walking where you were going. And that seed of doubt has done its trick, the piercing has become impossible to ignore, it's stopped you in your tracks and you turn around and get into your CR-V and you drive 25 kilometres to a Medi-Clinic for help.

Today I regret deleting that letter. It was - if nothing else - a good piece of writing :-) 

The road ahead is uncertain. I've never done divorce before. I've done death and I've done rejection and somehow this feels like both rolled into one. 

But I know I have to walk this road, one step at a time. For a hiker that's a good enough metaphor. And when I'm tired, I will rest. And I'll marvel at God's own beauty along the way, and I'll pick up the stitches and start to knit, once again, my menskombersie that I unraveled so successfully when I got sick. 

First of all I'll get a proper phone on my satellite internet package so I can talk to people.

I've also decided to stay on Facebook. That's what blocking is there for.

Every day is, still, an adventure.




Found it:










Popular posts from this blog

Ontheemding

  Dis wanneer ek só voel dat Buurman se .270 baie aanloklik begin lyk waar hy in die kluis toegesluit staan. Die wanskape misvormdheid voor die computer kan nie skryf nie. Die ding sit op die stoel met 'n klip in sy maag, 'n krampagtige gevoel wat eers herinner aan opgewondenheid, tot die gedrog besef: dis vrees wat so voel. Verlammende vrees vir wanskape wees. Die wanskape wese vrees sy eie wanstaltigheid. Ek soek woorde in die HAT, want hierdie wanskapenheid bestaan buite die kring van naamgewing, soos 'n brandsiek township-hond wat aan niemand behoort nie. Die lelike ding wat niemand wil sien nie, wat almal van wegkyk; nie van wil weet nie. Wat mens sommer wegskop wanneer hy 'n oorlas van homself maak.   Op die laaste dag van September stuur my suster twee vars foto's van ons ma. Sy vra eers of ek wil sien, want sy is gaaf en het begrip. Ek sê ja en laai die foto's af. Dit vat my weke om die foto's oop te maak. Ek kyk skrams, sonder om te sien. Ek raak ga...
Read more

You Give God a Bad Name [Part 2]

Image
Leon and I sometimes spend a few days in summer at a hunting lodge near my old hometown . Summer is a good time to occupy a hunting lodge - there are neither hunters nor dead animals around and one can enjoy a kind of pseudo-pastoralism without any of the annoying work of real farm life. Also, I don't know if I'd want to do Molteno in winter again, having acclimatised to the much milder Western Cape a long time ago.  Of course it always leaves a lingering sadness that we have to go and stay on someone else's farm. But hey, ons het almal op ons manier 'n plaas verloor , get over it. So we invited Anton to drive up from East London and share our little pastoral fantasy, and the vast old sandstone house, for a weekend. His eldest son would join us. I was on my way into town when I met them driving out to the farm and pulled over.  A small, grey man got out from the passenger side of the Landcruiser. He was hunched over and holding onto the front of his loos...
Read more

Roepman's Story, the short version

Image
R oepman was my second Bulldog. He died at 3 months old. This happened last year. He had left the breeder at 6 weeks (too young) with a full health clear. We took him to puppy school (second mistake). It rained lightly. He got sick. Our own vet suspected a long palate [reductively, it's not the palate that's too long, it's the face that's too short] and treated accordingly. He got well. I noticed that he slept with his head stretched backwards and did not know at the time it was the only way he could breathe. I just thought it was cute. He often sat like that as well. After mild activity he would vomit foam. While eating he would stop breathing completely and fall down, his tongue and gums blue.  I'd never thought that doggy-CPR would come so naturally to me. The second time he stopped breathing and I got him going again, we bypassed our usual vet and drove to a Bulldog specialist in another town with Roepman on my lap and me holdin...
Read more