the dance of the ink riddled fingers

fracturing me

Posted in 52 pickup, epiphany tiffany, how was your day? by enisea on 20/05/2014

There wasn’t the time to even comprehend regret. It started as a thought and the second I’d agreed with the idea, I was flying through midair summersault crying out in surprise and with no time to anticipate how to brace myself from the catapult. Drawn with great magnetism to the edge of the asphalt track, I connecting with the unrefined concrete. My face grazed shallowly against the path, thanks to the chunky helmet that I had reluctantly begun the journey with. Still the head banging (twice that I recalled) ricocheted confusion.  Almost simultaneously, there entered with heavy intrusion, the means of all this pain, the silver frame of my father’s bicycle. Instinctively, I tried to lift myself from this position of pain, but after an exhausted attempt to free myself from the collapsed metal atop of me, I gave up and my body groaned with overall displeasure. Alas, I waited a torturous ten seconds or so while my husband ran over to me to collect my damaged body and defend my legs from merciless mosquitoes.

Since then, it’s been three long days between roundabout appointments, waiting and wishing for morning because this is the least I’ve enjoyed sleep.  This said, I do feel a little stronger each day, regarding pain threshold and resolve wise.  It was diagnosed as a hairline fracture along the left arm radial head and neck – amongst grazes and impressive bruises. I felt relief for being a sook over a fracture (though I never cried about the pain); if it were only a sprain, I might be accused of being rather weak. Weakness.  Ahh, that nemesis of mine whom I both love and loath.  I’ve been perpetually confronted with most manners of weakness these last few days: physical pain, uncertainty, self-pity, feelings of inadequacy, requiring help for menial tasks, tiredness, the thought of being burdensome upon the love of my life, having a shorter fuse, and being very slow, etc…

Yet, how much my spirit has heaved relief at the very obvious reminder that I am not invincible, nor was I ever independent of anyone.  It also forced patience to begin that painful work of accepting with grace those unable to meet “normal” expectations – namely myself this time.  It also gave a noticeable leap to that challenge within me to make the most of every scenario.  It seemed that when I had finally begun to enjoy and rest in the slowing down, it was almost immediately that Hectic revved up and I found myself dreading my usual schedule – exhausted.  My emotions have been achingly unpredictable.  However, I think now I have embraced this fracture to my norm.  After all, apparently, bones will never break in the same place twice, because once recovered, are stronger than before – I take it this applies to life also.

My latest cerebral celebration is the growing determination to need to overcome.  Thoughts about learning every way to be single-handed for the next few weeks/months.  I’m still rather proud of being able to satisfactorily and quite quickly tie my shoelaces with my right hand, alone.

My imagination falls short of what I know this experience is going to teach me.  But I am incredibly humbled and anticipating epiphanies of how blessed I am to have, well, everything and everyone in my life.  At this early stage of recovery, I am already amazed at my exceptional husband, friends and my students who excited tell me they’ve been praying for me.  I mean, it really isn’t that bad a deal to have a hairline fracture that doesn’t require plastering, in my unpreferred arm.  Perhaps because I’m not one who usually gets sick or stays injured, that this sudden “surprise” really had me evaluating myself and why I was taking it the way I was.

A quote I’ve retained from one high school was “with weakness comes understanding”.  I think my definition of weakness is being recalibrated.  It isn’t weakness having a part of your body not work effectively, it’s a strength learning how to be resourceful and creative enough to compensate for it without complaining.  I’m learning that to endure lack without complaint is never weakness, it is the quiet and solid strength that I admire in others.

I can say this now after pouring my unfamiliarity with pain all out to God who replied with overwhelming peace, assurance and smiles.  I’m not going to be naive in thinking the hardest part is over in this session of fracture, though I’d like to think the hardest part is over.  I’m just grateful that the learning never stops, the loving never stops and I am safe wherever I am, however I am.

this is peace.

Posted in epiphany tiffany, pin the tail on the love, thought spills by enisea on 04/02/2014

I’m learning about peace. About what it means to place all my uncertainty and trust in God.

I’m trying to learn about what it means not to get offended and what it means to pray a tiny little bit more.

I think I’m beginning to taste the eventual joys about letting oneself shrink; being curious about how God would allow growth in imperfection.

I am learning about how God likes the little people who don’t know how to do things. As He usually likes to do things differently from the people who think they know how to do things anyway.

I’m beginning to enjoy the stories from the Bible again like a child having discovered an adventure novel in the adult non-fiction section of literature.

…and I’m totally enamoured by my husband who inspires me all the time because he can’t get his head out of this particular adventure book.

This is peace.

offended by the world

Posted in epiphany tiffany, he said she said, thought spills by enisea on 30/09/2013

I’ve battled lately with many injustices.  It seems as though there has never been a time where I have been so offended by the world – in its distasteful rituals and popular stupidities.  Suffice to say, it had begun to weigh me down, heavily – sinking my joy and hurting my heart.  It doesn’t help either, to have a memory that reverberates alarm bells that don’t have an off switch and erupt too frequently.  It’s been a little torturous to watch those I love fill their heads with uselessness, caring about inanimate objects and disregarding people, thinking “it’s not that bad” that so many children are robbed of irreplaceable values and spoilt of worthless things.  It scares me that character is secondary to exteriors and that the idols of children and adults alike aren’t usually the most wonderful people on the planet, grateful of life and who purpose to represent love.  I’m quite torn to be in a “free” country where the government speaks horribly of whoever else wants to govern and where the people have little/no respect for leadership, or each other.  And the list goes on.

I’ve been greatly offended by how things are because I’m a dreamer. Growing up, I believed the world could be a better place.  I used to think that people wanted the best for each other and would protect each other from harm.  I still believe that, I’m just continually shocked when that’s not the case.

But thinking this way is killing me.  It is taking a toll on everything in my life, being constantly in pain and up in arms about the inexhaustible injustices that reoccur universally very, very often.  It really only occurred to me this morning how stupid it is for measly me to try to solve these infinite issues in my head or let it make me sick to the bone, all the time.  My gut churns every time I read something that horrifies me – abuse, neglect, selfish agendas, ignorant falsities – especially regarding children.  Especially when I realise that children are growing up in a place that values selfishness and to protect themselves they too must be selfish and take advantage of each other and let the opinions of others govern their lives.  I tell you, I get heartburn every time I listen/watch/read the news, which is why I now avoid the stuff.

I can’t carry this by myself. I am one 24 year old who is already beginning to tire of relentless heartbreak.  Even the joys in my own life (know that they are enormous): upcoming marriage to a very incredible man, the wonderful children I get to work with, the amazing people who surround me, the excitement about life… even they cannot outbalance the violations that I know happen around the world.  This is not the way to live.  I cannot sustain my offence without it taking me out and calling me another victim.  That is not how to win a war against the evil in this world.

And that’s exactly what this is: this is war.  I’ve begun to see more and more how good wars with evil and as viral as evil is, good will still always prevail, albeit it not appearing that way.  I’m beginning to realise that to be overcome with offence by injustice is only going to riddle me with pain.  You cannot fight an enemy by being constantly wounded, nor by being afraid of it, and crying that it should never have happened.  You fight evil with good.  You fight selfishness with love.  You fight weakness with smiles. You fight deception by knowing surely, who you are.

All I needed to know was that it wasn’t ever my job to fight for the planet, it is my job to live with love in my vicinity.  What relief it brought me to remember that of course there are millions of others who are also living love, effectively winning battles on injustice.  It wasn’t ever my own heart that broke easily.  In fact, if I look back – it was me who asked God if I could know even a fraction of his heartbreak for the world.  Hence, now I have somewhat an understanding of a fraction of what God feels about dear Earth and every child.  Spoiler alert, this war – crazily enough, has already been won.  Good has already prevailed, love has already dashed evil.

The battle was never about who would win.  Because as seemingly “close” as it all seemed to ordinary eyes, it wasn’t a close battle.  Love always won, and always won by a mile.

The battle wasn’t over who would win.  It was over you.

We are fighting for you, from every child to every elderly on the planet.  Because Love has won the war, we just want to make sure Love has won you too.

Alas my domain is right here, Melbourne, right now, and as long as I’m grounded here, I (and my husband to be), are going to be trying to win you to love.

I couldn’t be more happy to let God fight my battles for me, and I’ve found freedom in realising I need not be offended by the world!  Rather than being crippled by the stories of cruelty and ruins in humanity, I carry on by giving it to God in prayer and continuing to live as best I can with love.

I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do
(Helen Keller)

the makings of the biggest hearts

Posted in epiphany tiffany, heroes of mine by enisea on 05/08/2013

I’m starting to realise that I’ve found the children we’ve always dreamed about.  My classroom is filled with them.  And it took me 6 months to realise it!  The mad ones, the crazy ones and the ones who used to annoy me. Yes, they come in all sorts.

I’ve started to see my struggling readers as the future best-selling authors, and my struggling times-table memorisers as future engineers and inventors. My frequent scribblers are actually emerging artists and film makers.  My loudest voices are only twice as loud as the others’ because they’re probably made to represent the voice on behalf of so many others without one.  Those who are always out of their seats (constantly without permission) to ask endlessly if they can help with something are probably unconventional healers of the community who aren’t concerned with the unwritten rules of the “proper way of doing things” and very persistent.  My classroom jokers are the ones who will most understand how temporary life is here and will not let a day pass without joy (and sharing it).  My extra sensitive ones will be the forecasters of events.  My rough and tumble ones will be the bravest in the harshest times.  The girls who don’t stop reading will be so full of admirable stories that they will have no problem living their own.  My rowdier ones will be the stirrers who aren’t afraid to challenge tradition – qualifying what is or isn’t worth continuing.  My ‘little police’ are going to be the pioneers of accountability and the whistleblowers of injustice.  My incomplete  homeworkers are some of the most honest, and won’t be afraid of being transparent with their struggles to help others in theirs, not to mention learning the weight of responsibility, cause and effect.

I suppose you never need to look far to find the children we want to lead the future… and the now, if we let them.

These little people are going to change the world.  It is rather silly of me to think any less of them than the best of them.  They just need a little refining!  They already have what they need; they’re already beginning to exude who they are and the good they’re capable of.  Now to believe they’re all exactly the people the world needs to heal and fight for good.  They’re exactly the children I need in my life at the moment because they’re prompting some serious shifts of perspective!

Jesus, let me never think small of them!

grade three life lessons

It was 3:05pm when I walked out of the classroom with various worksheets ready to multiply into class copies in one hand and porcelain cup in the other (and bottle of tomato sauce under arm – today was lunch order day).

As I walked the freshly painted path along the perimeter of the classrooms, I imagined some canon in H major being played on an out of scene piano as I slow-motioned my way to the staff room.  Smirking at my imaginary dramatisation of having paralleled today’s procession with fireworks going off in the grade three classroom, I breathed deeply and tried to refresh my perspective. I had to smile at my lack of understanding and the ridiculousness of children… and probably my inability to comprehend them.  Sometimes they puzzle me so, and I just want to smile or laugh… but I have to do it in secret – lest they think I find their misbehaviour amusing. I don’t. I seriously don’t.

Yet I cannot help but wonder what the perfect classroom looks like – and for who? A teacher’s definition of perfect is most definitely different from an eight year old’s definition of perfect.  I’m learning that I cannot control the classroom… and I don’t want to.  I want to do it differently (I’m aware that this is a dangerous thought).  What do I want?

I want absolutely respectful children to find joy in learning infinite amounts, to challenge themselves and continually rewrite their own personal bests; to accept good things and reject bad things; to be resilient and not petty; to love diversity and always play to each other’s strengths; to be confident enough to try and self-esteemed enough to not fear mistakes, instead learning from them; to learn the power of silence (in concentration, self control, and ignoring stupid things other children say); to know who they are… etc, etc. To put it short, I want a million things of children and expect that it is possible.  But such expectation means that days like today can take a toll on such expectant hopefuls.

I’ve just discovered that the most terrifying and God-graceful thing about being a teacher is realising that of all the specks I see around the classroom… they are nothing on the log that I lug around and justify as “me”.  It is amazing that I get to learn very humbling lessons from children without them knowing it, and not feel the pressure to change – I merely want to.  How’s this for cool: the only thing these children don’t like about any of their teachers is that they get in trouble from them – there is nothing about any of us that they know to disapprove of.  They don’t tell us to change, they don’t tell us what we should be.  They get to teach us without either of us even knowing it most of the time.

I am no more perfect than they – perhaps a tad more experienced and matured (one could hope).  Alas I come to the end of myself here.  I am realising almost all of my weaknesses in this grade three classroom. I’m learning more about myself and my ways of dealing with problems (and them) and how effective they really are.  If anything, these children are schooling me on how humanity acts and reacts in various circumstances (myself included).  They are merely shorter and more honest representations of adults.

They’re changing me, little by little, these eight year olds are hitting something very close to my heart. Perhaps they’re actually hitting my heart; because, of every person in my life, they know how best to irk me without even knowing it. They also know how to make me smile and chuckle to myself without knowing it.  They make me wonder about them without even knowing it.  They make me sad when their families are in a rough patch, without me knowing that I’m sad until another teacher asks me why I look sad.  They make me proud of them for the simplest things.  Their habit of stating the obvious make me want to cry and burst out laughing simultaneously. Today I got a classic, “Miss, you look very angry”, and with five spoken words, one ridiculous girl broke my anger (but I made sure not to smile because I was trying to get a point across).

I suppose this is a rant/boast about the ins and outs of the best job in the world.  People who find out I did kindergarten teaching and now primary look at me with respect and tell me I must have a lot of patience.  I suppose I’d like to think that I have.  But secretly, working with children requires much less patience than working with adults and never ceases to reward.

Interestingly, I’m finding it harder to be social with adults than I am with children – unless the adults have something to do with children because anyone with anything to do with children could talk about children until their voice gives out.

Towards the end of my frazzled day, my conversation with the bus girls entailed excited stories on the many methods and experiences of losing teeth.  It was really good conversation!  You just don’t really have those kinds of conversations with grown ups who’ve forgotten the joys of each process of growth.

I’ll leave you with this – of all the people with the most patience in the world.  These children, though they may get impatient about the petty things, are the most patient with the most important things.  And you know patience by abilities to forgive.  Children forgive easily.  And knowing that I can come to school each day and as long as I smile in the morning, these children are going to smile back (bigger) – regardless of the detentions I may have had to distribute the day before – makes it easy to love my job.

They are good to me, these children.  Even if they aren’t always “good”.

well, that’s part of life…

Posted in "stuff", epiphany tiffany, how was your day? by enisea on 11/07/2013

With networks like facebook, and exagerations of friendship circles, it’s no wonder we are bombarded with the lives of others – we chose to be.  What’s more, with supposedly 802 friends, statistically I shouldn’t be surprised when news comes that one of them just died this morning.

I haven’t seen him in person for at least three years, and I knew him very little, but still there’s a distance sadness that comes with not knowing what happened and that life was lost “early”.  I won’t pretend that I’m mourning somebody I hardly knew, or that I need any sympathy.  I think what’s shocked me is the reminder that death happens and our time here is not at all guaranteed until the age of 70, which we mindlessly assume; being young – that we will get the opportunity to grow old.  I suppose, there’s also the shocking reality that I have a stupendous amount of “friends” on facebook, yet one has died and I don’t know how, and the other week I was introduced to another that I was supposedly “friends” with on facebook – and I didn’t know her until tracing back relationships.  I even have a personal policy that I will not accept friendships with people I’ve never met – yet still I don’t know most of these people.

Of the time I did know this late friend, what he contributed to my news feed was mostly loneliness and crudeness. I don’t know which is sadder, that he died young, or that it seemed like he had more friends after he’d died than while he lived.

Aside from broadcasting our own boasts of how great our own lives are, photos and all, perhaps we should take all the necessary meaning of being “friends” with them and  totally remember them while they live.  Just saying.

what move shall i make?

Posted in epiphany tiffany, handfuls of ambition by enisea on 16/01/2013

There was something very wrong with my current understanding of this, because I wasn’t on time – wasn’t in time.

This growing frustration, it had been for a while – for as long as I knew.

Then entered a peculiar thought. Casual but with undeniable presence. This thought was new, and she looked coolly as though she knew what she wanted and had never cared what a second thought might have thunked. She saw me in my inglorious dance, it was hard not to.  In a place where everyone else looked able to move to the steady beat, I wasn’t one to compliment the multitude.  This one beat seemed to have me tripping and smiling, but for the most part, disappointed – I yearned to know it and I loathed it for humiliating me.  I hadn’t successfully kept up with a steady/consistent beat in any session I’d ever participated in.  But I was an optimist! An idealist, a dreamer and a hopeful; and so had come to know Denial well enough to know that it wasn’t a thought I’d fancy befriending. Don’t get me wrong, I had improved my steps much since the last try. I had gradually quickened my feet and this fed me slivers of satisfaction.  Yet my failure to keep up for the most part with the beat, with at least one of life’s simple beats  – an entire session of life’s different genres – made it fantasy and fairytale.  That was my happy ending.  That was the one thing I couldn’t do. I couldn’t keep up with life – not well enough to be considered a good dancer.  Heaving in breaths, sometimes utterly exhausted, disheartened, still I would try and try… stepping out of time, being late and leaving a fellow dancer in a lurch. Oh the number of others I had ruined timing for or disappointed and such… was a sad number.  I had helped to get some disheartened others back into the dance, and that was beautiful to be a part of… but I just wanted to be able to dance right – for once in my life.

I digress. This other thought, she walked slower than the others but had covered more ground than they had over the last sixteen beats and interrupted my frustrations with her straight face. “You’re not a beat person” she said frankly, to which I merely held gaze in reply.  There was nothing for me to say – I couldn’t defend myself and found no wit to counter this hard statement.  I blinked, waiting for another attempt at reciprocal conversation.  Then it came, the words fell like rain on the dry cracks on my exhausted understanding. “Have you tried rhythm?”

Have I tried rhythm?

It made sense, all this time I felt like clumsy fingers over traditional structures, slipping here and there to a poor excuse for sight reading.  I had done something right to bluff my way through each new part of life, “passing” despite what failure had always anchored me in inadequacy.

But it wasn’t me. It wasn’t the point. The point wasn’t moving regimentally to a common beat, it was finding freedom. It was being free to choose which of the many rhythms within the welling orchestra of life’s colours, one decided to dance to. For there were many layers of rhythm.  Rhythm was a brilliance of colour that gave way to different rhythms here and there, coming together and pulling apart, moving in and out of the beat.  The heart beat.

The terror entered only when an insecure someone or other would try to take the freedom. In either trying to stop others dancing or insisting that everyone dance the same way – that was when the floor was no longer a safe place.  A few, by some twisted idea, even tried to eliminate the music altogether – which could not be done.  Some would laugh at others, and others still thought their steps were more sophisticated and developed than that of others.  The dictatorship of propagating one particular dance – that was/is the greatest tragedy, as it made the majority contagious of insecurity.  But there was not merely one rhythm or one dance. There were many.  And not one was above the other.

Not on this floor.

Where there are no fools, where there are none to judge another.  The influential ones being the ones who inspire others to be braver, the ones whose dance is so uncontained, so unconforming but absolutely admirable!  Theirs was so to not overshadow but unto God, dancers who dance upon injustice. Unashamed. Children who would not dance for popularity, or for reward, but who would dance because of their love for it. Where every participant is a creator.  Where the game is to make as many people smile or laugh or try something new as possible. Where there is no such thing as too far gone.  Where nobody ever confuses their dance with that of another.  Where the embarrassed and hurt are not pressured but given the time they need to gain confidence and little by little, learn to move again, freely.

A great grace is that we all hear different rhythms.  The greatest grace being that we all get to dance with Love.  We just get to decide whether we want to or not.  And you really ought to tell them, the others, just how beautiful their dances are and how much their movement impresses you.  Because lately, all we’ve been hearing is how everyone else is doing it wrong.  Tragedy, that.

Dance freely and love others.

Move it.

“help my unbelief”

Posted in epiphany tiffany by enisea on 12/12/2012

What if we had everything that we truly wanted?  And the biggest deception was simply believing we didn’t/couldn’t/wouldn’t.

the steeper the fall, the higher the bounce

To a certain love of mine who always bounces back and impresses me every single time.  I saw this video and imagined this is what redemption looked like – slow motion joy, unadulterated glee, and an unreasonable and overwhelming amount of it.

We’ve got this.

swallowing days

Posted in epiphany tiffany, the poet-tree by enisea on 10/11/2012

There was an old lady who swallowed each day
I don’t know why she swallowed each day
She certainly didn’t just want it that way
She swallowed each day as she knew no better

There was an old lady who knew no better
She thought if she asked, nobody would let her
She excused herself for knowing no better
And then complained she was wronged in a letter

There was an old lady who complained she was wronged
Never fought for the rights she sort of knew all along
She felt hopeless because she didn’t belong
She was in the wrong state to know what she wanted

There was an old lady who didn’t know what she wanted
She shunned responsibility, and by decisions were daunted
She hardly pursued, but more often felt hunted
And the few things she wanted she hardly endured for

There was an old lady who would hardly endure
There was rarely a distraction she wouldn’t detour for
Her life was the furthest thing from secure
And even those who loved her would call her immature

There was an old lady who was in her last days
She couldn’t believe her younger days were a haze
And she prayed that none others would know this place
That her children would do more than just swallow their days.

let it pass

Posted in epiphany tiffany, how was your day?, the poet-tree by enisea on 22/10/2012

“Let it pass”
Was the whisper as another wave welled
Of memory and want and some surface spell

I was one of the many,
Recently migrated here,
To learn of addiction
And how not to adhere.

Just don’t entertain it
Don’t fall for those traps
Brace yourself, clutch a hand
And let it just pass

Celebrate every time
You didn’t scratch that itch
Watch the swelling subside
And heal well in its stitch

Let it pass and you’ll find
that it gratifies little
Grow stronger and smarter
as it becomes brittle.

Then find yet another
Not far from your class
A fellow to whisper reminder to
“Let it pass”.

about the Fraids.

Posted in epiphany tiffany, thought spills by enisea on 03/10/2012

Fraids. Little beings with an incredible capacity to create the most mesmerising compositions together!  They were every third shade of every second colour of the rainbow, that’s how they were related.  Some were softer than others, and some were rather distinct.  Fraids didn’t even always coordinate well with just any other either, just as not every colour combination is quite complementary.  This said, it usually didn’t take them long to work out awkward arrangements to something more coherent and altogether.  You can be sure that every time you saw something inspiring, it was the Fraids making a new arrangement.  And if you listened with utmost care, you might even have heard them nudge or bark at each other with cute demand (don’t tell them I said “cute”, though their voices are tiny, the ones with deeper voices never like that description).

Sometimes though, at a moment of concussion, one may wander from the rest, become disorientated and end up alone.  That didn’t work, because Fraids stuck together; and when they didn’t or when they weren’t trying to, they’d get upset and each would walk away to their own little corner.  There were many corners in their world, some especially sharp and others especially cold.  Now, when in a corner, each Fraid would miss the others and the warmth of company that they often danced around each other.  Trust me, had you ever been danced around and giggled over until the climate perfects to a balmy 23 degrees no matter what time of day it is, then you would miss it too.

That’s the thing, Fraids were beautiful because they worked together, because they were overjoyed at each other and they seldom wanted anything quite contrary to the bigger and grander picture.  They existed as a family; and because they always found each other and always rescued each other, they weren’t ever alone for more than 14 seconds. They weren’t all on about themselves and how to promote their own particular shade, colour or characteristic.  They were all about each other.  The delight they had over each other was sincerely impressively and admirable.

They were Fraids. They were together.
You’d be hard pressed to find Fraids in disarray, let alone a Fraid.
Never a Fraid for more than 14 seconds.

Imagine that!

dress me

Posted in epiphany tiffany, how was your day? by enisea on 25/09/2012

I made another dress to enter the competition I entered a couple of years ago.

Suffice to say, the competition is steep and although my dress-making has improved some, the technique shown by real seamstresses having pinned up their best for the competition leaves me crestfallen.  I see my main opportunity to win as trying to obtain a people’s choice award, meaning I’ll need votes galore!

So, to the few people who still visit here, please send 5 hearts my way!

http://www.tessutiawards.com.au/entry/464

…again with the self-promotion. In regards to blogging, life has moved so fast and my writing has regressed so, making the process of conjuring some illustration of how I am so much more difficult.  And as time has not been an ample commodity, I haven’t even tried (we all cry time-poor). There are things I want to write about, ideas I want to refine and imaginations I desire to explore which  seem to be banking up one against the other.  The accumulation and pressure it has lately been subject to has meant that they’re beginning to merge into a giant and undefined compilation of (for lack of better word,) stuff. I cannot find the end or the start and I do not know which direction to take or which angle to begin with, nor where I want it to take me.  It doesn’t help that I cannot string words well enough together that frustration shadows my every consideration to write.  So I’ve been doing other things with my hands.  I’ve taken photos and footage (with the intention to make a photo book and a short video, respectively), made a very basic board game (for my kindergarteners), sewn a dress (because I thought it’d be easy) and will bake a cake over the weekend (which I’ll take photos of for viewing pleasure).  

But writing, ahh, that is my beautiful wild horse – that which I’m not sure I could (nor want to) tame but desire to have the pleasure of riding at least for a while; while it takes to my hand willingly and allows me steer it favourably my way.  One day I’ll ride it well, and I don’t think it would be a forever establishment – this between my wild horse and I.  We’ll have a good run though, before I am satisfied with how I dealt with it, respected it and not commanded it’s loyalty to me.  Because I would rather the horse be wild and free to inspire others who would take it and learn of the world by it than want to have it all figured out. Writing will later be satisfied by my desire to read, research and regurgitate.  And although reading usually comes first, and it did (for a short while), it will be desired in fuller depth later on – if indeed I have any idea about myself and the pattern of my way. This is quite possibly one of the strangest things I’ve ever written – as though to prophesy it over myself.  Writing will not be mine forever, not this sort of writing – not bringing up buckets of my own inspirations and primitive ideas (as mine are exhaustive and being exhausted) but later I’ll be reading what everyone else has read, and rewriting it in a way that will make you question if it really truly is the same story. Because after riding my wild horse once, I will probably be inspired to turn every tamed pony, wild again.  And I don’t expect everyone will agree with me either…

I don’t know where all that–^ came from.

Apparently I’m back.

procrast…(will finish the word later)

Posted in 52 pickup, epiphany tiffany by enisea on 13/07/2012

Anyone else would think I had time and enjoyed doing other things, painting or fixing broken toys – but this habit of avoidance is ruining me.  Oh God, break this circuit, get me out of this perpetual trap.  I lose my senses, things blur, I forget almost everything and still I take the bait every stupid time. Every. Stupid. Time.

Procrastination: the iron sceptor of Inadequacy.  Every procrastinator knows their inadequacy and is too good at avoiding facing them.  I’m well advanced in these practices and I have never felt confident at everything (and have felt robbed of my satisfaction where I have felt a little more confident).  What’s more, it continues to deteriorate the little confidence that remains, and makes one wonder what good they are in anything but escaping. And even then, procrastinators have not perfected escapism because our responsibilities find it, bite us hard and remind us again how inadequate we are, even if we make it, just… because it’s been so long since we did well.

I will tell you more about it… later.

recipes for disaster

Posted in epiphany tiffany, frozen frames, how was your day?, incr-edibles by enisea on 10/07/2012

I wasn’t in my favourite state of mind this morning, flooded with insecurity before having swung my legs over the side of my bed. I wanted desperately to be able to will the day away and feel better tomorrow, but my warm abode gave me dimished comfort, so I decided to heed wise counsel and face the day.  Against my usual pattern of progress, I took a deep breath, climbed into a dress I’ve never worn out, looked myself in the mirror and nodded a contented that’ll do. Scrounging impatiently through a few recipe books til I found a recipe with a photo I agreed with and with ingredients I had majority of, I went about creating. I say creating because I didn’t follow the recipe, I substituted a quarter of the ingredients, omitted one and added another, following all processes casually. Which is probably why I had to smirk over what I’d score a 5/10 product I wouldn’t pay money for.  But my failed attempt at delectable comfort food got me working towards a bite-size goal (pun intended), and sometimes we just need to do easy and laughable little things to get into a momentum of progress after running into a wall.  Doing little things like dressing nice when nobody will see you on a rainy day at home (because if we dressed worse than we feel, we’d need to scrape ourselves off the ocean floor), text messaging a friend lame jokes from a 15 year old colour-in kids joke book, ruining a recipe and blogging about it.  Because some days are full of sighs and rather than getting you to sympathise with me, I just needed to tell myself squarely, “that was dumb”, so here’s to getting over self when stupidity gets the better of us, and we’re visited with emotional consequence first thing the next day.

I documented my adaptation to what probably would’ve originally been a great recipe, just incase I had stumbled upon the secret to making the best cookies – I didn’t, but here are my adaptations, so you know not to make the same mistakes.  I wouldn’t be able to tell you which of my experimental changes was most detrimental because I made several… but raw sugar is very different to brown sugar and wholemeal flour is very different to plain flour… and if you keep your goods in the oven for 70% longer than stated, don’t be surprised when the top tray comes out burnt.  I suppose there are many life lessons to be learnt from food preparation – this one being about how following instructions can often be a good idea.

Dearly beloved, here’s to making mistakes, climbing over them and trying to do things differently with the next batch of opportunities – because that’s what life presents us with, ingredients for making our lives.  Don’t be wasteful, you’ve been given some great ingredients.  And I can’t wait to share in some of your lives over wonderful meals.  Ahh, life is a mystery box.