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)

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”.

$5.99

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…

madness

Posted in heroes of mine, pin the tail on the love, thought spills by enisea on 08/04/2013

It doesn’t take much.
Not much at all.

Just a little trust, and a little hope, a little smile and a shared thought. Then a little more trust, a little more hope; bigger smiles and developing understandings. They all began to make sense over 474 days. Turns out, I’d begun to see my highest hopes in another person.  As though everything I’d hoped for was hidden in one man.

And no, he wasn’t perfect, nor was he Jesus.

Therefore I couldn’t possibly want him, or rely on him, or give my life to him. Could I?

...mm, maybe, I could.

Maybe I could trust a man who wasn’t Jesus.  Maybe this idealist could be completely enamoured by one rugged and imperfect man.

He thought/thinks differently.  I can’t actually remember when it happened but he became  more and more interesting.  He fed my curiousity with various dreams, ideologies and questions.  He kept me intrigued with the world, being my personalised broadcaster of current and historic knowledge.  I learned of everything I had never seemed interested in, nor care about, nor knew about – until he began to introduce me to a wider world.  I often still maintain disinterest, but now by choice, not ignorance.

He treats me as though I am the most beautiful person in the world, and I still don’t really know how to apply make-up.  But he prefers it that way.  He makes me laugh, he makes me feel like I’m the sensible one frequently because he’ll have no problem being ridiculous.  He’d sometimes be defensive, few times irritable and often boyish.  Occasionally vulnerable and seriously charming.  He doesn’t always hold the door open for me, but sometimes he will.  Sometimes he’d pick me up and hang me upside down.  And to be honest, I can’t really remember what it was that drew me to him.

It’s madness.  Madness to be in love.  Madness to want almost pathetically just to be in the company of this other person. To learn more about them, study them all the time, give them more than you’d give yourself.  It’s madness being so thrilled by the simple things that he’d do, the minute things he might say and how his touch could bring instant safety.  There aren’t hands in the world warmer than his.  And there isn’t facial hair in the world that keeps me as entertained as his does.  It’s funny because he can’t exactly sing, but I love it most when he does.  The times I’ve felt the strongest are when I’ve tried my best to keep him up.  Nevertheless, have I ever felt so protected!  I’ve never had such great conversations as I’ve had with him.  Never stretched my imagination as far as I have with him.  I’ve never been so open to life, love, learning and truth (correction).  I’ve never admired somebody this close before.  Never felt so sure as I do now.

Never been this mad. This madness is so exhilarating one might easily mistake it for nonsensibility.  But it is very sensible to be in love.  In a world where we are taught to love ourselves, the only way to rebel against such flawed systems is to love another.

They say I’m young.  They say I’ll learn about how hard it can be committing life with somebody else.  That once we’re bound by covenant and surname that everything unglorious rears it’s head.  Well, mind the inaccurate quoting, but it seems very much inferred. And maybe they’re right.  Maybe my 30, 40 or 50 year old self will read this again and laugh at my 23 year old naivety.  But then again, maybe not.  Maybe my 60 year old self will read this, smirk and whisper “that was when our love was small”.

This is us.  This is madness.

engagement is amazing

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!

Acustoms

new love.

Posted in heroes of mine, pin the tail on the love, the poet-tree by enisea on 26/11/2012

I have found her.

I have never before found a celebrity or somebody of a particularly influential position who I’ve felt I most relate to and am inspired by… until now.  I clicked on one beautiful video, and she captivated me, not only that, but she soon had me addicted to her: her presentation, to the messages and the honesty, to the nervousness and love of poetry!  I couldn’t seem to watch her videos fast enough and my eyes were starry as I adored her.  This is probably the closest I’ve ever come to saying “she doesn’t, but she does know me – and I don’t but I do want to be just like her”.  Haha – allow me to bombard you with a few of her poetries and stories – she’s beautiful – and I know you’ll agree – and you’ll probably tell me you knew all about her and I’m the last person to jump on her brilliant bandwagon – but I’m so excited about finding her!

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Sarah Kay:

mm…

Posted in 52 pickup, heroes of mine, how was your day? by enisea on 26/11/2012

Currently, life is a corridor.  I’ve never felt this sure about being unsure in my life.  There exists a strange contentment about smiling mildly and not exactly knowing what comes next. Because I seemed to have known what I supposedly wanted to do before I knew what I really wanted.  Now I’m learning about what I want, and what’s worth wanting… and I’m wondering what to do about it.

The last three hours have seemed to evade me, ever since I told time that it wouldn’t rule me. So, as though to provoke me to panic, it flew past and still I am here, defying it… I think.  What if I told you time was brittle?  That if you wanted, you could make sure you always had enough of it by defying the conventions of understanding it.  Sort of like always having enough money because you work, get paid, and spend your money well, but never looking at your bank balance and therefore never wondering if you could have more – because you don’t need more, you’ve just heard that if you had more you could do more with it – which is true and not true at the same time. Because if you had more money, you mightn’t do more with it than living a good life, because a good life is more than having as much money as you want.  There are many, aren’t there, who live poorer lives because they’ve overvalued the quantity and undervalued their quality.

Haha, yes – really simple thoughts today. I feel like a 1990 computer operating system – as though my thoughts really couldn’t process any faster than primitive and very young understandings.  I think today I’ve been repulsed by complexity and I desire simplicity.  Why isn’t life as simple as having enough and loving abundantly? Haha, what if it is that simple and we’ve all been too stupid to realise that?  What if my life isn’t about setting me up and having what I want?

I know a woman who’s life is not hers.  She has no life other than her four recent foster children.  She struggles and she struggles, but boy does she love! She is not perfect, and she probably feels rather lonely and/or overwhelmed frequently.  She has no particular talents to build her pride up against, and you wouldn’t find her interested in anything regarding exterior beauty and she is bald.  But she loves. She is tired and still, she loves.  Oh, when she talks about her children – there is a little frustration, there is the pain that she feels for them, but there is so much love.  I don’t know another, to be very honest with you, who has loved at such a capacity as her – that I know of, personally.  Her life has translated into making the lives of four children whom she did not birth, into beautiful lives.   And somehow, that humility of hers scares me – because it seems hard, really hard.  I sort of care about myself- probably more than I should.

To pray for others more than myself.  To care about others more than myself.  To cheer for their successes rather than promote my own.  To protect others as much as I protect myself.  To love as love is defined.

Haha, I wonder, when our lives here are finishing, if the only question we will be asked is “So, in your 87 years of life, did you love properly?”

What if the greatest success of life was ensuring that you helped as many as you could ‘love properly’. Not: build your dream home, having 2.4 children, own 2 cars, pay off your mortgage, own every apple product, and have enough to pay for your children’s education.

Haha, I know, mid-midlife crisis. I won’t lie, the idea of severing myself from electronic technology and trekking through a foreign wilderness sounds rather appealing right now.

This whole: I DON’T UNDERSTAND MY LIFE and WHAT’S LOVE GOT TO DO (got to do with it?) has hazed my morning.

Yes, I feel very much like the only way to justify life today would be to be crazy: shout, sing, smile like a maniac, kiss my family, celebrate life and help an old lady to cross the road… I really shouldn’t let myself blog on these sorts of mornings – it makes my insanity rather public, though it’s strangely pleasurable not being cool, calm and well written.

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.

which passion will prevail? (Lilias Trotter)

Posted in he said she said, heroes of mine by enisea on 17/10/2012

Never has it been so easy to live in half a dozen harmless worlds at once – art, music, social science, games, motoring, the following of some profession, and so on. And between them we run the risk of drifting about, the “good” hiding the “best.”

the nights get colder

Posted in heroes of mine, thought spills by enisea on 25/04/2012

The distant street light was the warmest thing in sight and still it offered little comfort.  Her shoulders had cemented into what felt like one hugely unkind knot and she couldn’t remember the last time her toes felt warm.  Her nose was a damp cold tap and eyes were tired of being restless.  The last night she’d been in a shelter was too long ago – any time unsheltered is too long; and around this time of the year, you had to be in early to get a spot.  And the loneliness – that was the worst.  She missed being hopeful.  The cold was wearing her thinner, faster than she knew what to do.

It’s been colder at night of late.  Every time I spend a decent amount of time outside in the cold, especially at night, especially in winter, I feel sad that there are people who have to sleep in it.  I can only imagine what it might be like being homeless in Melbourne’s cruel winter.  I don’t know what I would do without the support that I’ve always had – I have an incredible family, accepting friends and a supportive church – and they are the warmest parts of my life.  No doubt, my imagination would pale in the comparison with someone else’s reality.  It pains me not knowing what to do about it. I have a few spare warm clothes and I don’t know how to share them.  I don’t know how to help in my own limited capacity, but I want to.

Nobody should ever be homeless. Nobody. Ever.

And those who are are stronger than they know.

When was the last time you admired a homeless person? What? Admire?

(Please remember, it’s possible/healthy to admire the character of those in highly undesirable circumstances.  It’s possible/healthy to remember we are not above the homeless/poor/addicted/vulnerable/love-less/traumatised/ unglorified others)

http://www.macarthuradvertiser.com.au/news/local/news/general/fighting-youth-homelessness/2533773.aspx

watching other fingers dance over electric ivory

Posted in heroes of mine, how was your day? by enisea on 06/02/2012

He played like I’d never heard it before.  His fingers, dancing along the keyboard in an orchestrated crescendo; building tension, creating climax, and then sighing beautiful relief in a few tapered and surprisingly light summaries.  His timing was impeccable and the heart behind the medley was honest and vulnerable.  Nimble fingers cascaded upon keys in ambush attacks on my composure.  Like the release of a line of arrows, I decided that resistance was futile and wound my defenses down – surrendering control of my exterior, immersed instead in quiet overwhelm (of a wonderful kind).

I had to leave my seat because it had triggered something a little deeper and I let weep something both lost and found… mysteriously familiar but for the most part unidentified.

And I don’t know why I cried like that, I’ve never heard electric keyboard rounded so well and danced so impressively over.  He was a meek man with a grand sort of humility.  Having recovered completely from an unkind ailment that has wrestled him to the emergency room of a hospital, his nervous smile over the opportunity to share his celebration of life was such a blessing!  His gratefulness for health and indebtedness to a loving God dripped off the keyboard in beautiful harmonies and melodic cadences.  And my amazement at such beauty dripped from a leak in my eye.

I love watching others love in different ways.

Having detached piano from passion in my own experiences, it was absolutely inspiring seeing it in such full expression in another. I hope one day to write as well as he played.  It’s such a privilege watching other fingers dance in different ways!

my latest charmer

Posted in heroes of mine, pin the tail on the love by enisea on 20/01/2012

He was charming.

He smiled at just about everyone whose eye he could catch.  His gestures to and behind passer-bys were witty coupled with that gleam in his eye. He knew I was watching him as I slowed my pace in passing his stand.  I met his gaze and he motioned to me with suave vividity, as though to tell me in his own way that I was some sort of beautiful. Smiling shyly, I nod and walk reluctantly on before stopping out of view.

I wanted to see him again. He was selling magazines, none of which I was remotely interested in – I used to buy a few back in my university days but the editions always seemed less witty and interesting than the one before it and my small collection slowed to a halt.  It’s been a while, I thought to myself , and I’d buy a magazine from a beautiful person just to buy a little more time in their company.

So I walked back and stood in front of him smiling. He rose and winked at me, nodding to his stock with a raised brow and a suggestive smile. I nodded and was thrilled in the conversation that ensued.  Well, it wasn’t much of a conversation, he had me at hello.  I couldn’t get a word out, he did all the talking. 

He spoke differently to anyone I’d ever talked to.  I tried to tame the girlish grin that cracked along my face because, well, he was charming.  Where others spoke with words, his language was rich with hand gestures, facial expressions, pops, clicks and unrecognised English.  He whipped out a mag from where it lay on top of the pile of clones and twirled it around his head, up his arm and presented it to me with a flick, a nod and a lovely smile.  I felt like royalty. After the exchange of magazine for purple note, he signs and says “thank you” in one of the most appreciative manners I can recall!

I think the fortunate half of society often has a big issue of lacking personality.  I was fortunate enough to encounter a beautiful stranger of charming ardor and he made my day… I hope you make somebody else’s.

 

morning with the mother

Posted in heroes of mine, how was your day?, incr-edibles by enisea on 11/11/2011

I roused to the buzz of indi-pop as my phone vibrated in an intrusive frenzy. 6:30am.  Then that all-too-familiar “I’ll get up at 45” sigh, a routine thought nowadays, countered this morning only just, by a furrowed obligation.

“It’s Ma’s birthday, and I have no present for her, let alone much money. I have to make breakfast.” 

Heavy eyelids flickered unwillingly open as my retinas reluctantly adjusted to the morning.  I exited the house in pj shorts, assuring myself that nobody would notice because I had pulled a casual singlet over my sleepy head.  Teeth brushed and keys in hand, I drove to the local supermarket at 6:57am…where I waited alongside another restless grandmother who had apparently waited for half an hour for the 7am open.  We exchanged scenarios for needing to buy goods too early in the morning – she was short of milk and bread for her grandkids and wanted to make them lunch for school.  I wanted to buy fruits and icecream to make breakfast for my mother.  She was chatty and although unimpressed that the trading hours of our local had inconvenienced her, was an upbeat conversationalist I was glad to wait with for a noticeable 4 minutes.  She told me how obsessed her daughter was about mangoes – we were talking about fruits – telling me her daughter could easily eat 3 mangoes at a time and consume 10kgs of the stuff within a week!  “Darling, I don’t understand it, she crazy! I buy her mangoes, and her husband buys her mangoes and she eats it all!”

Once the automatic doors permitted us entry, we were both in and out within 2 minutes.  Seeing me pick up a punnet of blueberries, she exclaims “Darling, that’s my favourite!” which I smile and nod in response, “Oh really?”.  Arms clad with vanilla icecream, a bunch of bananas and blueberries, I checkout and drive home on autopilot.

I already had pancake shake. I had shaken it and then loosed the lid to release the pent-up pressure. I walked away and back again, picked up the bottle and shook it furiously, only to remember that the lid hadn’t been tightened… only after it had splattered on my face, in my hair and a little over the kitchen bench and stove top.  Wonderful.  Cleaned it up and then began.  It is my tested rule of thumb that the first 3 pancakes are seldom perfect, so I spent 3 pancakes calibrating saucepan surface temperature and remembering timing.

A little prettying up and mother’s suggestion to melt (fairtrade) dark choc was a marvelous idea.  I was so excited about how wonderful it all appeared I bound right up to the sister’s room to ask (probably too loudly) if she wanted some.  I opened her door and she was sitting up on her bed, head in hands, unresponsive for the most part, but slowly shook her head… shame, really.

After breakfast, we settled outside, in the comfort of the morning, fed and smiling, clicking through the pictures Daddio had taken in my parents’ recent trip to China. Taking an hour to hear my mother’s experience, we smirked at my father’s obvious fascination in seemingly ordinary scenes.  I took my time this morning – told work I’d be in at 10:30 instead of 9ish; I seldom relax in the mornings, it seems I have too much to do – thus I have little to enjoy.  It was nice, really nice.  Appreciating the scenery we’d lately taken for granted, I sat with my mother, and she sat with me; together admiring the work of the man closest to us both. 

My father’s creativity (and landscaping and DIY ability) is pretty stunning.  As is the woman who here admires it. 

Happy 50th, Mother Dear!  What a day to turn half century!

confessions credited

Posted in 52 pickup, heroes of mine, thought spills by enisea on 01/11/2011

There’s a particular bravery that comes with confession, it is the liberation of imperfection.  It’s my favourite part of reading my favourite blogs; confessions of loneliness, of struggle, of multiple eating disorders, of feelings of inadequacy, of laziness and failure – as though to relieve my isolated thoughts of imperfection and trying to console to my heart that which isn’t perfect.  I, for one, love chocolate frogs/pumpkin juice, milk tea, paper moons, parapluies, and frank notes for their spills of honesty – I do visit you, you’re all tabbed onto my favourites bar!  Just wanted to shout out and credit you all for inspiring me with your bravery and honesty!

The below post is one I wrote about 6 months ago, but didn’t post, because emotional eating is something that everyone else rolls their eyes about saying “whatever, that’s not a real eating disorder, you’re a faker. It’s normal, and obviously eating disorders aren’t a norm”. I read another friend’s post  a couple of days ago and suddenly felt that heck, let’s get it all out. I’m aware that emotional eating affects a lot of women people, and although we joke about it all the time, it really has a detrimental effect on everything, it was something I felt completely out of control regarding, for at least 10 years.  So because I felt so out of control I decided to boast about my eating capacity rather than hide it, because that would mean that I knew what I was doing and so I tried to deceive myself into thinking it was my choice to eat and eat and eat (which of course it was!) instead of it being something I felt I was unable to restrain in myself.  I would joke about it a lot and will probably continue to, it’s something we like to hide behind because jokes mean laughter and laughter equates to a smiley face which means I’m happy.  Whoaaa, that’s a little revealing! But hey, it’s learning that my body is just my body and although it represents me, so do a lot of other demeanours.  Since writing this, I’ve been much more keen on exercise – I quite like “running”/jogging/walking and am planning to do the 35km eastlink cycle (yayy!), I’ve been eating one portion each meal (as opposed to 2 or 3) and have tried to avoid snacking and excessive junk food, which I’m not altogether rigid about.  Although this past week, I’ve been a little more indulgent in because I like getting very involved with special occasions! Haha, well here’s to progress! And shameless blogging!