the dance of the ink riddled fingers

that historical misfire

Posted in handfuls of ambition, heroes of mine by enisea on 07/08/2013

This harassment had exceeded a month. The boy had merely inquired of the situation and the reward. But since the response from the army had been so dry and the tension so taught, even slight words had reached the king, reverberating like the slight pluck of a harp string.  Anyone who had inclined anything resembling interest concerning the battle was quickly relayed to the King…  And in his desperation, the King sent for a boy.  Something in him wondering if a simple boy might bring something of a fresh perspective to the battle lines.

On arrival, the king soon found the rumours true – that this boy had a strange arrogance about him that gave him a ridiculous confidence – almost offending him.  However, the kid spoke of an impressive first two fights.  So the king, in his delirium about the loosing battle, let him go his way. He almost humoured himself, that of all the grown men with different strategies, a boy had the most confidence.  Alas, to the despair of the rest of the army, he sent the boy.

Between first hearing the overwhelming challenge and being summoned by the king, the boy had thought a thing or two through regarding battle strategy.  Both his previous opponents had been stronger, bigger and fiercer than him – yet he had still prevailed.  He was keenly aware of what elements offered advantage and his cunning had taught him to eliminate the others’ before they were used.  The most vulnerable and valuable sense for most fighters (often taken for granted) was that of sight.  The boy knew he would be greatly helped by blinding any opposition.  Other than that he relied on his accuracy and speed – he mostly used the strength of others against them.  But this was the most threatening of enemies yet.

He had just fitted and unfitted himself with the King’s armour – which when worn had completely stripped him of all his strengths.  He was better without it.  He politely declined the king’s helpless gesture. Now the giant man approached him with scoffing and ridicule.  The words didn’t phase him, he’d grown accustomed to such reproach from his older brothers.  It was merely when his God was mocked that he was filled with fire.  The brute came with heavy thuds, clanking armour, a wicked laugh and a roaring audience.  The boy heard only the throbbing of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He scooped up a good five stones within the next seven steps and had slipped them into his shepherd’s bag without needing to look at them.  And having believed wholeheartedly that the promises he’d been given had every reason to be fulfilled (and because his future depended on their being a nation to rule), there was everything to gain.

48So it was, when the Philistine arose and came and drew near to meet David, that David hurried and ran toward the army to meet the Philistine. 49Then David put his hand in his bag and took out a stone; and he slung it and struck the Philistine in his forehead, so that the stone sank into his forehead, and he fell on his face to the earth.

Though believing somehow that God would make the impossible possible, he could hardly believe it was that easy.

He had actually aimed for the giant’s eye… (but that part wasn’t recorded).

Based on a true story.

(I must admit I like the idea that God uses our misfires to hit His bulls eyes because what we aimed for was a little off anyway)


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”.


The cashier watched me curiously as I tried pathetically to look like I had a purpose for loitering around the front of the small local grocery store.   My eyes flittered across the lolly selection, strategically placed at the front counter.  Then walking to the lolly aisle, choosing a box of tictacs, I fiddled with it and then put it back; keeping a careful watch on the old guy with the walking stick at the far right corner of the little store.  He had been talking to the staff stacking shelves for about eight minutes now and my restlessness was growing.  I paced a little, walking the inside perimeter of the cool section and then into the alcoholic beverages area.  I smirked, betting I probably looked about 16.  In this time about seven others had walked in and out of the store and I sussed out each individual, trying to work out whether it was any of them.  Blank. The only person I was keenly aware of was him, elderly Mr. Conversation.  And with a sigh of relief, I heard him round up his stories with the stockist and watched him hobble his way down the breakfast isle, scooping up a small box of cereal in his stride.  

He came behind me  into what had thankfully appeared as a que for the single cashier.  And as the man in front of me was paying, I turned around, sized him up and asked instinctively, “Do you need a hand?”

Standing awkwardly with walking sticking under arm, one bottle of tomato sauce in right hand, cereal in the other, he replied, “I’m about to fall over”, and my heart chuckled. Relieving him of his two burdensome goods and placing them on the counter, I finally met the eyes of the cashier and smiled, “I’ll take these for the gentleman.”  

“Is that why you were hanging around here?”
“Well, he took so long talking.”

Mr. Conversation was getting his wallet out and his limited agility meant that I had swiped and smiled before he had realised.  And as the cashier waved away his money, he stood there confused, looking to me, then the cashier and back again.

“Strangely enough, I was at home, and God told me to come here to pay for your groceries, so I ran here and waited for you” I said, still coming to terms with it in my own head.

“Oh God bless you, young lady! What would make you do that? Tell me your name. What school do you go to? You didn’t have to do that!…” 

He reached over to take back his things but I drew them away, “Which way are you going? I can take them for you.”

And so began my wonderment for yesterday.

We walked slowly, granted, and in that space of time – about forty-six minutes – a new found friend had opened his life to me, made me smile, taught me about things I’d never heard about and sunned my spirit!

His name was Graeme and he was just over six foot, with a whole head of perfectly white hair.  In my first two minutes with him, I’d learnt that he had an amputated toe (due to diabetics, and him not looking after himself as well as his late wife had).  He told me about his bung knee and how it had pained him since 80, but his Hungarian walking stick had been a help.  When I asked how old he was now, he told me 84, and I remarked “So you have your best years ahead of you!” To which, he knocked back his head and let out a trumpeting “AHAHA”, then almost embarrassed about that unexpected release of childish amusement, continued conversation as per composed 84 year old’s do.

Turns out he was qualified in economics but when that industry withheld occupations from him, he became a teacher – and never looked back.  Working at several school in Australia and one in Singapore, we talked about schools, and Singapore. I learnt about his family; that his granddaughter wanted to be a ballerina, his daughter was studying at ACU to be a teacher, his father was an ANZAC and his great great (great?) grandfather was a nightpoacher who caught rabbits from private property and was shipped to Australia for his crime – from whence the family became Australian.

He told me fondly that he played bowls four times a week and had another game at 1:30 that afternoon, followed by a barbeque (which he’d bought the tomato sauce for).

He counted to ten for me in both Romanian and Serbian, and recalled to me the first time he’d heard Bahasa Malay, reciting “eighteen dollars” for me in the then local tongue (which I’ve of course forgotten by now).  He gave me an insightful history lesson on Hungary, Anglican church origin and told me a little about his travels.

We finally approached his new little white car, which he described as the smallest car that could fit him.  He even admitted he didn’t know if he’d still be driving after his current three year licence expired. We stood there talking for a good while longer, and my eyes tired with the brightness of the sky. But my smile wasn’t phased as he told me wonderful things. Wonderful, because he had a wealth of knowledge, a richness of stories and a humble sense of humour! Of every word he spoke, and every story he told me from his 84 years of life – there was not a word of complaint: no complaint about his diabetes, missing his wife, his sore knee.  No pity for himself, no sorrow, nor regret or bitterness.  Here was a man that I was very much beginning to love.  He was sweet as well.  Before he farewelled me, he insisted I kiss him on the cheek.  Then suggestively leant his right cheek down to me, and I obliged, smirking that my 25 year old fiancé need not be threatened by my new 84 year old friend.

What character! Graeme, you beautiful heart, you!

– – – – –

Haha, I write this not to boast any good deeds, but to remind every young person that the most incredible characters are not unusually three times your age.  Also to give testimony that love and care for even strangers – in the simplest of ways will do more good than you can know, enriching your life probably more than the recipient’s.

Where this is coming from: I’m beginning to learn about the gospel of Jesus Christ.  Beginning to learn what it means.  About how reciting the entire book of John will not change my life (or anybody else’s) unless I am serious about deciding to love those within my vicinity. And if more people on this planet would consciously love others, the population of humanity would actually believe in love and how wonderful it is (and it wouldn’t take believers so long to convince non-believers – and themselves – to believe in Love, because they’d encountered it before). 

Here’s some suggestions, simple ideas that won’t put you out of pocket more than $3: when you go to the shops, buy an extra chocolate bar and then give it to the cashier, and thank them by name (they have nametags for a reason). In the coffee line of your usual cafe, buy the coffee for the person behind you.  Write on the back of your restaurant bill and leave it for the waiter/waitress telling them how amazing they are (whether you ‘felt’ they were or not!). Just try to make it a way of life to love on those around you – without the condition of them knowing you or having to be nice to you!

I’ll cap it off with this, [for the crazy Christians out there:] at the end of my lovely moment with Graeme, I casually told him “You know your leg won’t be causing you too much trouble from now on”.  Sure, I believe that Jesus heals, but I didn’t need to pray fervently at 90 decibels for it to transpire. What was very encouraging though, is that he believed with me; and just as a token, told me to touch his knee because he’d read stories where touching brought healing, so I did.  Then we left it at that! 

Haha, and yes, I know there is still an infinite amount of things I need to learn about love, real love, and how Jesus loves and sees every single incredible human being, and even every single horrible human being.  Sure I’ve have my less than lovely moments, and people who I’ve grown impatient with. But I’m not going to stir you about who deserves love and who doesn’t.  I’ve been told to love and that’s what I’m learning to do, I just had a cool story to share.

Mind you, not all love stories will go that way and they may not be that fun, but who knows, you’ll have to love to find out…

Posted in handfuls of ambition, heroes of mine by enisea on 23/01/2013

Dear lovers of music (who doesn’t like music?!),

My very talented, graphic, artistic, web-designer of a boyfriend put this brilliant site together.  This is the latest business that he and a good friend began last year and relaunched this year.  Trust me, I’m very proud of my high-achieving boyfriend and his best boyfriend . Check it out, and treat yourself to a unit of the biggest names in-ear monitoring has ever known!  None of this chunky Beats by Dre/Bieber headgear, this stuff is what the real tech heads are using.  And I’m not at all biased, just very convinced.

Bringing the big names down under!


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.

finding everything

Posted in handfuls of ambition, thought spills by enisea on 02/01/2013

I didn’t mean to find it. It was smaller than anyone else would’ve thought, especially because I happened to find everything in it.  When you happen upon a hole, few people look in it, because the darkness usually satisfies the assumption of most – that it is empty.  Isn’t that what a hole is – by definition? Space missing, emptiness, the break in a continual surface, etc, etc.

Ah ha! And that is why this hole was brilliant.  Because how often do you come across a hole with everything in it?  It wore the usual unsuspecting “nothingness” about it, just like the others, but it wasn’t. It was different.  It was different this time.  And I won’t be able to tell you where it is, because knowing the greediness of humanity, if I told you where to find it, somebody might try to make the hole bigger (and destroy some of the everything, making it only something more than nothing).  Or somebody else might try to take it away and keep it for themselves. I mean, I have nothing against sharing everything, I just get a little sad when those with little imagination have no radar of their own and fade into the lack-lustre world they surround themselves in.  Where gravity is “rational thinking”, “common sense”, “realism”, “cold hard brick, dirt and stone”; and where the rest of their kind become obstacles.  The blue, green or purple in their eyes leaking colourful perspective, and their stares, merely gray – excited only by prospects of having everything (the wrong way).  They are the poorest of our kind.

But I’ve got a constant watch on that hole with everything in it.  Because I’m looking for people.  Only people with enough curiosity and wonder will survive well in the hardest places.  Only those who look into what looks little or “nothing” and who can find everything worth smiling about.  Because  I’m looking for a kind of people, a kind people.  I’m looking for the richest people in the world – who eyes are as big as their hearts, whose imagination has to be folded 7 times to fit in their bodies.  I’m looking for others out there who will find everything with me, and then teach somebody and somebody else how to find everything too.  Starting in the simplest places, like a hole in a fence, or the smile on a face, in a wink or waterhole, or a delayed train (which was only late because it had to first travel to a demanding child’s imagination before arriving at Glen Waverley, Melbourne).

Open you’re eyes  – there is everything for you.

the scenic route

the scrabble cake

Posted in frozen frames, handfuls of ambition, incr-edibles by enisea on 01/10/2012

for starters

Posted in handfuls of ambition, how was your day? by enisea on 03/09/2012

One of my favourite things in life… is starting things.  I love starting things. I love the inauguration of something new. I love difference, am charmed by challenge and have a strange fetish for the smell of infancy.  Which also (sadly) makes me susceptible to novelty, with a tendency towards restlessness in having to be consistent.

I am a starter and I know I’m not the only one.

I now find myself shuffling my feet and looking sheepishly around, awkwardly trying to do a decent job of maintenance (a less favourable pastime).  See, many of the things I have started are now demanding I attend to and keep them going healthily. Warranted. These times, however, cultivate prime opportunities for my imagination to imagine finishing these already-started commitments and dreaming up the next. I’m getting itchy for the next adventure, for the next new chapter, for the next new book.

Many friends are travelling the world.

I want to start that.

the same kind of different

Posted in epiphany tiffany, handfuls of ambition, thought spills by enisea on 10/04/2012

I had it this afternoon. It’s a chinese medicinal soup made essentially of ginseng, dried goji berries and red dates. A perculiar concoction that smells comforting, ends bitter, and has a middle hint of sweet and salty.  As I child I used to scrunch up my face at the smell of it, wait til the soup had cooled and hold my breath (and or nose) as I gulped down a mouthful and a half at a time – cupping the bowl to my mouth.  Amusingly, I’d heave in a deep gasp after each swallow as though the stuff nearly drowned me and once finished, shiver dramatically, knock back a glass of water to rinse the liquid from my memory and leave in haste.

Now, I’ll admit the stuff has grown on me. Sort of like most of the things that are good for us in life – the good stuff grows on us as though repetition beat down our resistance because we realised that what we were adversed to was simply preferential, but the essence of it was healthy.  I’ll name a few – none of which I am claiming at all to practice regularly or be good at, but it’s something that I think we need to realise is rather healthy: talking listening to stubborn people, trying to convince a selfish kid not to be selfish without getting frustrated, doing what your parents nag about at a really inconvenient time, taking the onus over a shared disappointment, defending a person you don’t agree with just because it wasn’t right for them to spoken of at the time, giving that other person the last of the best dessert, encouraging a person when you knew both them and you could’ve done better had an ounce of thought be invested in preparation, forgiving the person immediately who took too long to forgive you of the lesser offense… the list goes on.

And the funny thing is… that the more we do it, the less annoying it gets and the more it intrigues and the more it goes down well.  I took the time to observe the soup today.  I’ve never done it before, really sat down, exploring it purposefully and slowly.  One might observe of pattern: the more it fascinates, the more one’s inclined to like it.  I’ll use the first example, I used to find talking to old people… annoying – because they never understood.  I forced myself to hold conversation when spoken to (because Asian culture is big on respect), and little by little I learned – that the case was quite probably difficult because I never understood.  So once I figured that out, I tried to understand and it made old and/or stubborn people so much more intriguing.  Not as subjects of a study that one pities, but as different and beautiful people that we are expected to accept – because we are all the same, kind of different.

the sachets

Posted in handfuls of ambition, thought spills by enisea on 07/01/2012

They were contained in little transparent sachets.  She had about a hundred of them. Hidden under cloths, in boxes, at the bottom of drawers, back of cupboards, under her bed, between pages in empty books, beneath blanket covers, in tins, piggybanks, wedged deep into car cushions, and buried in her glovebox.

But exactly that. They were hidden, and as long as they were hidden, nobody knew.  She’d inherited them from, well… they seemed to have leaked through little cracks in her world.  Sometimes they were waiting on the arm of the couch, other times they’d have been unknowingly spat from a vivid friend in frantic excitement, or a couple of times she’d woken with it on her forehead.  Either way, she had begun to wonder how much longer she could merely collect them for.   Sure, they were beautiful, but she was sure there was a point where she was supposed to do something with these little shimmering packets of powder.  As much as they appeared inanimate and stationary, she was convinced that they held some sort of potential, as though they emitted some ambient hint that they were not just a unique shimmer of ordinary glitter to sprinkle over ordinary coffee conversation.  As though to infer “just add water”, which she tried but nothing happened. The stuff neither absorbed nor transformed, and when she had drained the water it remained as it were previously, but perhaps a little deeper in colour.  She has experimented with a few, she named them by whatever the hue reminded her of.

She left “cheesecake crumbs” in the sun for over a week to see what the weather might do to it.  “Acidwash denim” was soaked in a cup for 2 days. “Old map shreds” were put in the oven for 2 house with a slow bake cake she was making at the time. “Holely teabag” was kept in its sachet and carried around in her back pocket for 5 days.  “Broken glass”, she hammered repeatedly for ten minutes.  “Parrot beak” was sprinkled over a lit candle. And “dried watermelon” was sprinkled on buttered toast and eaten (later she found a new packet of what she was completely convinced was the exact hue of the stuff she’d ingested – though there were so many colours appearing every now and then that an unfamiliar set of eyes might’ve mistaken it for a new packet, but not her – and she was glad to have a new packet because it felt like a pretty big risk eating the unknown substance and she wasn’t about to inspect her faeces).

With every experiment to discover what these curious little sachets contained and test the properties and character of these different colours and shades of intrigue, there seemed to be little response.  The stuff apparently maintained its form, except for one thing… with every different thing she tried, by the end of her experimentation she seemed to have a little more than before, and usually it would appear a very, very, slightly deeper tinge than before.  Provoking the thought that every effort was welcomed and grew (in a very, very, slightly gradual progression) the stuff.

But she was younger then and more curious when she was younger and soon enough something happened to her, rather than the little sachets of coloured dust she collected.  She, grew up, and began to forget about it.  She took the occasional packet of stuff with her sometimes, to a hill with a great view, to coffee conversations and would sprinkle them over the day, letting the wind snatch  it in a wisp and be gone.  Sometimes, the company she was with would notice and might gasp or stare at the little dance it might do before disappearing, some would commend or marvel, others would smirk as though they were once familiar with the little specks of beautifully hued dust but now… they were concerned with more important matters.

One day, she had a very sensible and grown up idea and she placed a sachet under a microscope. It was a tattered little mechanism but it did the job and here, she stared in wide-eyed disbelief.  These little specks of dust were not just little coloured bits of powder-like substance, they were extraordinary! She spent about an hour inspecting the first sample, and here she slowed down her thoughts and began to understand a little more.  Each different sachet had a different shape about them. And then there were the instructions etched into each speck of little dust; extremely small and very simple – sometimes there were even options between suggestions to take.  She could see that there were a few lines of sequential to-dos, but only the first step was clearly legible, after that it could not be read, or it seemed incoherent.  “How do you read instructions off a speck of dust?” you ask, well this was the peculiar thing, the more one stared at it, inspected it, the larger it seemed to appear and after staring at one for an hour through my microscope, a single speck of the dust appeared  about the size of an apricot seed!

Now, she was rather perplexed and although absolutely enthralled, she was just as quickly sobered.  These little powdered premature beauties were very grand, and more advanced in requirement than her most practiced ability; they resembled an ingenuity of greater prowess than she’d ever recognised in herself.  But she jotted some of the instructions down all the same.  Appreciating what she understood of a few little packets, each packet a different hue of intrigue, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.  She didn’t dare inspect more than a handful of sachets for fear of overwhelm.

And then she prayed:
“Hello God, there is too much and not enough in and of me to do justice to these powdered dreams. I’m going to need help. Please and thank you. Amen.”

hello, i’m back again

Posted in epiphany tiffany, handfuls of ambition, how was your day? by enisea on 31/12/2011

“Hello, I’m back again,” I say, which is a funny thing to say when I’ve never been here before.  Never sat outside with Hillary and just written to the sound of the gushing water of my father’s DIY water feature or the granduer view he arranged, eating mangoes for breakfast.  Never eaten mangoes for breakfast, and I still can’t say I like mangoes, but until a month ago, I wouldn’t touch the stuff.  Yet, of late, I’ve been convinced that if my mother tells me to eat it, it’s probably a good idea.  So over the last three occasions I have actually braved the beautifully coloured fruit, I have gradually learnt to flinch less with each bite and enjoy the aftertase.

Sitting in the slowly rising warmth of a filtered sunshine, meekly I greeted this morning, the last of it’s kind.  Filtered by the shadeclothes my father hung to protect his five hundred “other children” (orchids), I sat with my rival siblings of long green leaves and flowerless bulbs, protected from the brilliance of our lovely Sun’s smile.  I love it when she smiles, though yesterday I may have been drawn too close to her and our more passionate encounters usually see me walk away burnt.  I let her kiss my nose, lips, shoulders and upper back yesterday, and I’m just that little bit more delicate because I chose to frolick in her presence at a beautiful beach with friends who are practically family, for seven hours.  She brandishes a cruel sort of warmth, with intensity that few a weathered man can brave the fullness of for long.  A commanding sort of presence – of which we find unbearable yet nonnegotiable; we adore and we fear, and I suppose I understand then why people believe in the Sun god, though I do not, I believe in the One God.

* * * * *

“Hello, I’m back again,” I say, which is a funny thing to say when I’ve never been here before. Never been to the last day of 2011 before, nor felt the thought of “Next Year” to have ever emitted so much mystery.  For as much as I know that I have a job, five units of study, a supportive family, a church community, close friends, a boyfriend, and ambitious projects in line for 2012, these distinguishable subcatergories all seem to be auspicious tips of the same immeasureable iceberg.  So you can imagine the welling expectation of being hugely excited and equally terrified with both the achievement and responsibility, respectively, that 2012 has so far winked at me.   I have this childish glee and curiosity of circling a suspiciously huge package, prodding at parts and analysing the shapes it seems to suggest, yet for the most part I’ve no blue clue what’s concealed in the unfamilar arrangement of these four little digits.

Yet, contrary to every other year, where I have let life take me to wonderful places and beautiful people… this year: role reversal; I’m to take life to wonderful places and beautiful people.  This new sort of intention to make things happen rather than let them happen is both delightful and very charging…but it’s going to mean that I need to know what I want/need to make happen – this, God, is something I’m not so sure of but something I know you are.

* * * * *

“Hello, I’m back again,” I say, which is a funny thing to say because it’s light and void of the disappointment I just experienced when I had written something of an honest moment just then replicated and obviously different because the original post was lost through a broken window an hour or so ago.  But even in the inconvenient experiences, there still exists strangely hopeful lessons.  What if everytime something went wrong, rather than wearing the victim’s rags of disaster, I could merely reappear and bravery say, “Hello, I’m back again”.

Dearly beloved, if 2011 wasn’t your finest or proudest year, step into tomorrow with a brave face and say, “Hello, I’m back again”, though it’s a funny thing to say when you’ve never been there before…

A year ago, I dreamed small dreams

A year ago I started writing different pages.  Pages I had only let one or two other people read, and pages I’d hoped to be published.  A year ago, it was my best work, I could not fault it and it seemed to flow well.  A year later,I reread it and it seemed to need a bit of reworking.  So I suppose that if I can look back a year ago and read what I thought was my most inspired work and feel it wasn’t as fetching as I remembered, then I suppose it means that a year later, I’ve made progress!

I want to be a better writer.  I want to be better at everything.

I suppose my striving-towards-always-improving-because-I-always-thought-I-needed-improving “ness” (because I do!), has made me completely unaccustomed to the lovely manner in which D speaks to me.  It’s almost unnerving how highly he regards me, and how patient he is with the fact that in our first week of “us”, I couldn’t make time to see him from Tuesday to Saturday.  He has visions, he dreams dreams, and he sees me in his ambitions.  I always thought myself a dreamer, but this man is putting my year ago dreams to shame!  Haha, we decided to refuse to become a “comfortable” couple after day 4 of being too comfortable.

To project myself forward a little, I declare that a year from now, my current dreams will either have been completed or in be the process completion, and would’ve become “realities” which would then be challenged by a new batch of “impossibilities”, and so on and so forth.

Dear God, I’m addicted to dreams… this was your doing!

re drafting

Posted in handfuls of ambition, heroes of mine, thought spills by enisea on 19/09/2011

Wanting to do something but not knowing what or how to approach the situation without seeming like every other fake, noncommittal, well meaning disappointment of a friend, was tricky – to say the least.  The two were familiar in a strange sort of way, having known her from school, she recognised particular mannerisms, the standard responses and understood, on milder terms, a similar sort of insecurity.  Since school, contact had dwindled to something of needle in haystack frequencies, very few and far between – if any at all.  She might even have confessed having forgotten this friend most of the 5 years the distance grew for.  But there must have been enough trust and/or understanding still there or just an availability to a moment of story vomit, to quickly break the surface of time-distance with some incredible honesties in a curious trip to the ladies room together.

So what does one do when one has no idea how to be caring/loving, authentic and committal at the same time, but knows there is great demand for it, to be both distributed and received. Sort of like proofreading a draft and finding it heartbreakingly beautiful, but a little tragic, and wanting something about the fluidity of the story to be changed… just not knowing what to or how.  I sort of just want to be present as the pen continues to write and maybe whisper a few thoughts on editing a couple harsh words to something still honest but in light of love.

To a wonderful woman, more beautiful than she probably realises, but in ways very different to her immediate thoughts on beauty.  I once called you in panicked frenzy, in tears about having felt something of my innocence stolen having watched something disturbingly violent (the memory evades me), and although I cannot remember the words exchanged, and only my desperately heart-broken sob for the memory to evaporate, I remember your company, your peace and your comfort and I will always be grateful for that.  It was one of the first and few times I’d ever called somebody in utter panic and sorrow, and there you were. I suppose one could only hope that perhaps I’d be afforded the privelege of returning the favour.

shut up, storm

Posted in epiphany tiffany, handfuls of ambition by enisea on 05/09/2011

I drove home with a familiar sort of anxiety.  The sort of anxiety that forecasted the swell of an ocean of overwhelm. Fierce winds began to whip around me in a display of intimidation, crashing waves on jagged rocks and aggravated storm clouds laughed it’s deep thundering laugh.  I flinched at every threat, eyes flitting and mind racing through the paranoia of a familiar sort of hopelessness. 


I whispered to the foreboding dark skies, “stop it”. And to the swelling waters “I know how to swim”.  To the wind as it rushed menacingly straight at me, “all you are is air”.  And little by little, I didn’t feel so afraid.  Little by little the anxiety sank.  Little by little, the tasks at hand seemed doable, a little less impossible, and a little less daunting.  Heck, a strange and brave satisfaction arose from being about to whisper to Fear, Worry and Anxiety: three pathetic bullies, “You’re not that overwhelming” and watch them slouch, pout and walk away as deflated insecure bullies realising that fear was just a cardboard mask now without it’s original terror.

Ah, Jesus.  “Nothing is impossible”, so you say. 
A handful of things in my life look pretty convincingly impossible… but I’m believing that they’re all just faking it.