Small Town

I’ve been living and working in the city for roughly 11 months. Most of my time has been devoted to settling into adulthood, adapting my lifestyle from a student to a young professional and meeting people along the way. Of all the things I’ve learnt about myself, one thing that rings true is that I am not cut from the same cloth.

I’m small town. Dead set in my methods and there’s no way I’m going to unlearn these prudent habits. And truthfully, I’m not vying to be a city slicker either… I simply don’t want to.

Singer-songwriter Aron Wright’s lyrics to a song called Home, have captured my experience in the past few months perfectly:

I have seen all I care to see of this world it has no more for me

I need the call for giving peace

That only comes from my family.

I wanna go home. I wanna go home.

I’m following the lead of the setting sun.

And I’m going back where I came from.

Ironically, in my last few years of high school, I was so desperate to break free from the limitations of the town in which I was raised. I wanted to smash all the boxes in which people classified me. Now that I live in the city, I have found that people still put you in boxes. They’re just a little bigger, creating an illusion of freedom.

But there are things about the city I cannot deny that I love. There’s an energy about it that constantly drives you to be extraordinary.  A small town keeps you comfortable. A city never runs out of thrills. A small town deprives you of growth. The only way to survive in a city is to grow. A small town is stagnant. A city is constantly moving, and if you stop you’ll get left behind, unable to gain ground.

But this city is not my maker. It’s just an enabler. The small town made me. The city just unlocks who that person is. Now that I have that revelation, I am more determined to confidently run the path God has set for me.

People born and raised in the city just seem to be more street smart. They know the hustle. There’s an expectation of imperfection and a general sense of acceptance. Enter me: Anxious workaholic. Likes peace but seeks adventure. Wants to change the world, but scared of what that may involve. A good night out involves spending quality time with people you care about, in moderation, followed by eight hours of sleep. Values tradition, a fact I wasn’t aware of until two weeks ago. Treads with caution. Learning to do things alone. The city as a setting: Deceptively brave, bold and beautiful.  

Put more simply, if I was Alice, after falling down the rabbit hole I think I would be pretty disappointed with what I would have found once I reached the bottom.  

I follow Humans Of New York posts on social media. They’re basically street portraits of people who share their stories. It’s a social phenomenon which has extended across the world. There’s even a book with a collection of these stories and portraits (adding that to my Christmas wish list).

One story I’ve been mulling over the past few days is about a man, raised in a city. He moved to a small town, fell in love with a woman and they started a family together. He always wanted to be a musician, so his wife agreed to move to New York with him to see if he could make something of his music career. After moving, they had to take on extra jobs to pay rent, he hardly spent time with his family and wasn’t working on his music at all. He and his wife were fighting more and at one point he became abusive. She left him, and took their children with her. Now he’s alone in the city, with no music career, doing a job he hates just so that he has a means to live.

I know that won’t happen to everybody, but that’s the gist of a city- You’re constantly chasing your dreams, or finding the means to. I don’t think I have a great quality of life here. But I can’t go back to a small town either. 

I wasn’t raised in a city. I don’t always understand how it works. Sure I want to be successful and make it to the top, but what happens after? 

If I moved to a forgotten town, then yes, maybe I would be happier, have a comfortable life and be a great something. But the city appeals to your ambition while offering you some kind of anonymity. You can fail here, and then try again without anyone making a big deal about it.  You can be who you are here, without anyone passing judgments (to your face at least). You can be forgotten here, without anyone caring. No one is great here.

You can live in a city and still be trapped in boxes. You can live in a city and still do yourself an injustice. You can live in a city and still be a small town girl.

Generations

When I was growing up, all I wanted to do was be a hero. At age four, I wanted to be a Power Ranger. By the age of seven, I wanted to be my grade one teacher. At age 11 I wanted to become a well-known author like Roald Dahl. At 14, I wanted to be famous, like the movie stars. And by the age of 18, I just wanted to be me.

Now that I’ve got to know myself and come to terms with my shortcomings and my abilities, the 24-year-old me just wants to become who my parents are. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be someone they can be proud of, but now I want to be somebody I can be proud of. If I can embody their compassion, their authenticity, their tenacious audacity to do what is right and their steadfast leadership then I know my life will count for something greater.

My parents are teachers. Teachers do not get enough recognition for the work they do in raising generations, supporting communities and transforming society. I didn’t become a teacher because I thought it was a boring profession. But in retrospect, I would rather have a career that imparts value into people’s lives, leaves a positive mark on the world and shapes humanity for the better.

When we walk through malls or shopping centres, people my parents taught decades ago stop to greet them. My mother doesn’t always remember their names but she recognises their faces. The conversation always goes something like this: "You were a good teacher. I always remember what you taught me. Thank you for always encouraging me."  

The simple explanation for such gratitude is this: My parents are heroes. Oftentimes the good things they do may be overlooked and underappreciated. But today I want to acknowledge the work they have done. I am grateful that they raised me. I am one of the many who came from the works of their hands. But I am most privileged because they were the ones God gave to me.  

They have taught me to love God and love people. As Jesus taught His disciples in Luke 10: 27, the greatest commandment is this: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind,” and, “Love your neighbour as you love yourself.” I have seen my parents serve God faithfully and be kind to complete strangers. They carry a heart for humanity, because above all things, their hearts are devoted to God.

My father is a cornerstone in his community. I remember on countless occasions, having sat down for dinner, a member from the community would pass by our house, yelling from outside our gate. Asking my dad if he could help type out a letter, or fill in an application form, clarify the meaning on a formal document, help find someone a job or even just help out with food or loan some money. My parents wouldn’t hesitate to help. They would leave their warm plates of food and see to the needs of someone else. I thought all families did this kind of thing. Unfortunately, as I have come to know the world, and all it has to offer, it is disappointing to see that such selfless kindness doesn’t happen everywhere.

My parents have made so many sacrifices for our family. Making sure my brother and I have a comfortable life, a secure home, and protection from the ills of this world. Sometimes we did not understand their methods. We thought they were unfair, unreasonable and not understanding. I remember arguing with my dad one day, to go and see a movie. I said: “But everyone is going”. His response was: “You are not like everyone else.” Those words have entrenched a sense of identity that cannot be questioned or taken from me. It has propelled me towards my destiny. 

I wish I could mention all the other things they taught me. But perhaps the greatest lesson is this: To be faithful with the small things. Collectively, the small things make a significant impact. So mum and dad, I know you sometimes feel that the things you do aren’t always great or glamorous. But they are significant. And for 50 years, you have blessed the world because of the good things you’ve done.

 

You are planet shakers. You are history makers. The generations that will follow you, will be different. They are not like everyone else because you are not like everyone else.   

Colossians 1: 27 To them God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory. (NIV)

Space and time

Part of my job as a content manager for a website involves altering the dates or time-frame in which posts are published. Essentially, I get to defy space and time, creating a new reality in a virtual place.

Outside of work though, my skills are bound by the only reality that matters. Where real life happens- where hardships, sadness and inevitable abandon happens- when friends leave you behind.

I recently found out that another one of my friends is fighting Cancer. This time it is Leukaemia. I had no intention of writing about Cancer. I have no right to. I am not the one who has to decide to go through undetermined rounds of treatment. Nor am I weighing up the pros and cons of different methods.  

But I am the friend of someone who is going through this. I am the friend of someone who has to make difficult decisions about her future. She has chosen to be positive despite this unfair card life has dealt her. She is relentlessly fighting to fulfill her calling and she won’t let Cancer stop her.

My friend, who’s known about her condition much longer than I have, is hell-bent on making her life count. She has taught me that life is meant for living. We had spoken to each other before I found out, no word of Cancer. Then again, people don’t go around announcing that they have Cancer. 

She could only talk about her plans to study further and her passion for social justice and equality. Surely, someone who is ill wouldn’t sound as strong-willed as she did?

That’s where I am wrong. A paradox- death drives people to live. Do I have to find out that I’m about to die before I start becoming intentional about living or find a cause to lead? 

When this bombshell dropped, obliterating reality, all I wanted to do was fall through the ground. Shifting back to a year before, when we were delivering newspapers and Cancer was something that happened to other people. Maybe push back even further before I met her, perhaps making different decisions that would never lead me to meet her. Or just fast forward to the future when this would all be over and I’d be so many years ahead to remember this even happened.  

If I avoid being here in the present, then I would miss my calling. I could abandon this space of destruction and cheat this collapsing time, but I would miss the blessing of being part of the unfolding of God’s good and perfect will. I would miss what He is teaching me.

If I stop living here, then I am no good for squandering the space and time I have been granted. Unable to account for it, I will become unworthy of humanity. The privilege of friendships and the ability to fight for a cause that adds value to this world, it would be foolish to waste it. 

"Don't waste your life"- that's a title of a book authored by John Piper, which I've never read- those are also the words that have been running through my mind for the past three days. 

I fear that in two weeks, when this news is no longer fresh in my mind, that I would forget these very words and the things I have questioned about the way I live.  

I fear that I will zone out of this current space and time, and embed myself in the future where there are only fragments of this present and no time for recollection. 

Lipstick and dust

I don’t wear make-up. That’s reserved for special occasions (like the rare wedding or graduation). I tell people it’s because I have really sensitive skin and I break-out like a teenager in those Oxy ads from the 90s. But the truth is I’m just too lazy to paint my face in the morning, as it is, brushing my hair is an inconvenience.

There is that one day, when my girly hormones overcome the tomboy in me and all I want is to feel pretty. I like to have my hair done, flowing down my shoulders, with a flower to accessorise it. Speaking of accessories, a bracelet or a necklace makes me feel delicate and special. Heels make me walk tall and give me that “Man, I feel like a woman,” confidence Shania Twain sings about. And the wind against my legs when I wear a dress makes me feel a little like Marilyn Monroe doing a photo-shoot and a little like a child running through a field of daffodils.

I don’t dress up often (the blazer I throw on for work doesn’t count) but when I do, I relish in it. Although the attention is pleasing, it’s not entirely about the compliments you get from others, or the inquisitive questions about why you made such an effort. It’s the “My goodness, you’re beautiful,” moment when you look in the mirror. When you are completely content and happy with yourself. Nothing anyone else says can compete with how you can surprise yourself when you realise the “Something lovely to look at,” is you.

I can’t speak for men, but I can confidently say that all women like to feel beautiful. Once, on our way back home from a trip, we passed through an informal settlement. Driving past the shanty houses, I saw a young woman, probably around 18 years of age. She was wearing stilettos, a black jumpsuit, her hair was styled up and I believe she was wearing make-up. She walked over to a bin and struck a pose. Her friend, holding a mobile phone, held it up to take the picture. I remember thinking that it was a complete spectacle to dress up and then do a photo-shoot in the dust. And then I considered if it had been me, an 18 year old posing for that picture. She’s just a girl, who wants to feel beautiful - I have those days too.

So I read the first chapter of Rob Bell’s book Sex God (it’s not an oxymoron, apparently it’s about sexuality and God… go figure). It talks about how in 1945 a large quantity of lipstick was delivered to the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, which the female prisoners started wearing. In a way, the scarlet on their lips just restored some of their humanity. Wearing lipstick made them feel like individuals again, and not just numbers in a system. Taking care of their appearance made them feel human.

Maybe that’s why being beautiful is such a big deal. It’s not necessarily superficial (as I mistakenly thought in the past). For some, it can be a revelation of your worth as a human being.

Now here’s the part that just throws everything in a tailspin: I had professional pictures taken recently and had the privilege of getting my make-up done by a professional make-up artist. If my pores could speak- they would say they loved how the Mac powder didn’t clog them up. My lips would say that they enjoyed being pink for a change. My cheeks would say that the blush made them feel like they were a real feature on my face. My nose would be happy to finally be contoured. My eyebrows would be pleased to be shaped. My eyes would be glad that they were finally complemented with the right shade of brown.

And although it was nice to feel like a supermodel for 10 minutes, I think the girl who goes home and knows she is beautiful without all that make-up is the happiest one of them all. She knows her worth, outside of her beauty. She knows the dusty parts of her that aren’t great to look at, and still feels complete. She knows that God makes beautiful things out of the dust. 

Six Words

I've decided to take up the six word story challenge by Benedict Nicholson.
This week's theme is Passion.
Here's my attempt:

He kissed her. She slapped him.

Speaking of six word stories- here's one by Ernest Hemingway:
For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.

But do check out his blog and attempt one!

You put a smile on my face

You put a smile on my face

The pleasure of your company

To meet in the secret place

This joy surged from the depths of me

For only you can do that

Genuinely, after all this time

'Was different, truer than fact

Tears welled up, Your presence sublime

The delicate memories

Bread broke, fellowship and fire 

Remembering histories

Always You, who I desire

Nothing can wipe this away

You are the One who put it there

No pardon for what I say

The knowledge of being Your heir

You put a smile on my face

Elephant

What is it about women that makes them obsess about weight? Why is it that when a woman enters a room, the first thing you notice is her size? Why does a friend or a relative you haven’t seen in a long time always start a conversation about how much weight you’ve gained or how much weight you’ve lost? Why do you feel sad when you can’t slip into your jeans easily anymore… why do you feel happy when you can fit into a smaller jeans size?

Why do I feel guilty when I eat an ice-cream? Why does the thought of not eating carbs make me miserable? When was the last time I didn’t count the food I was eating? Why do I care? Why should I care? Why does my weight have so much power to influence my happiness?!

From as early as I could remember- my mother would always warn me about the dangers of getting fat. My father would sneak me chocolates, but my mother was always ready to count the sweeties in my hand. Her favorite line to reprimand me: “Don’t overload your plate”. By the age of six, I clearly understood the concept: If you eat too much, you’ll get fat.  

Nevertheless, I am grateful to my mother for ingraining this very annoying truth in my being. I am healthy and that trumps any self-image issues … not quite. I thought I left those insecurities in high-school. Unfortunately, they have managed to wiggle its way out of the dark, abandoned corner of adolescence and shamelessly stalk me, nullifying the freedom I mistakenly thought comes with adulthood. No matter what I accomplish in life, no matter what progress I make in my career, no matter how many successful relationships I build with people, when I get home and stare at myself in the mirror- there’s an elephant staring back.

In high-school- if it wasn’t my skin, it was my size.

In varsity- If it wasn’t my size, it was my hair.

Currently- If it’s not my hair, it’s my skin. And the one constant in all of this- my weight.

I’m not going to tell you a story of how I looked past this silly notion and learned to embrace my curves. (In fact- that vomit-inducing saying: “Real women have curves”, is wrong. I’m no doctor, but I studied Life Sciences for three years and I can confidently say: Curves don’t make a woman. Anatomy does). I digress, what I want to tell you is that I don’t know why women have self-image issues. It’s like when we’re born, we immediately get awarded a badge that says: “There’s something wrong with you”. And then you progress beyond toddler phase and then that monster badge rears its ugly head and you basically have a screwed up idea of yourself for the rest of your life. (I know this because my grandmother was 80+ and still telling me not to get fat- some ideas never die… Oh my word, I think I finally figured out the plot of Christopher Nolan’s Inception.)

I am not going to come down on media for influencing our standards of beauty. Surely, by now we should know that something only has as much power over you as you allow it to. But we don’t. I don’t. There are days when I like myself. But there are more days when I don’t like myself. Nothing changes. It’s not like I grow more beautiful some days and then morph into something ugly the next.   

It’s like there’s a short circuit in my brain because there’s an elephant occupying a room in my mind that also holds my ideas about beauty. The room says- the elephant doesn’t fit and cannot be beautiful. But really, we shouldn’t hate the elephant. We should let her trumpet that uniquely majestic sound of hers so that the walls of that room can come down. That room, that very room is what’s limiting our thinking, our ideas of beauty and the way we see ourselves. That room says big is bad, loud is wrong and happiness is influenced by the way you look.

The problem is not the elephant. She is beautiful. The problem is the room. It can’t contain her beauty.

Tether

It’s 6:10 am, and I’m getting a phone call from my mother.

Me: Hello ma.

Mother: (Sounding frantic) Where are you?

Me: I’m at home.

Mother: I thought you were out walking, it’s too dark outside. 

Me: Of course not. I would never walk in the dark.

12 hours later, I'm thinking about the conversation I had with her that morning. Maybe. Perhaps it’s time for me to start walking in the dark.

The unknown. That’s all it really is. You don’t know what lies ahead of you. You don’t know what may trip you, or who you might meet in the middle of it. In the light you see everything. Nothing can hide, the danger is exposed. You see things as they are. In the darkness things lurk, they catch you by surprise. There is fear, because you don’t know what to expect next.

I don’t want to liken adulthood to darkness entirely, but that’s what the past few weeks have felt like. It’s like I’m walking around with a blindfold and having encounters with new things. Reaching out with my hands, exposing myself to the unidentified, learning how to handle it and then bumping into the next thing. Fumbling till I've figured its structure, how it’s made and how best to use it. Tasting it, deciding if I agree with it or not. Finding something that works better. Finding different ways of doing things. 

It was Mother’s Day this past weekend. The 6^th year I wasn’t home to celebrate my mother. I had a choice to go home, there were no circumstances holding me back this time. I could have gone home and shared the day with her, but I chose not to.

I figured that every time I go back home, it’s like running back towards the light. You never conquer darkness because you’re holding on to the things that comfort you. The easy things. The things that remind you that although you’re an adult, you’ll always be someone’s child. I've been choosing to stay dependent on my parents instead of "forging my own path" towards independence. (Shocking, thought I’d have this figured by now.)

There’s a battle raging inside me. The child who wants to be taken care of, and the adult trying to break free from the tether anchored in the light. But what happens when the tether snaps? The fall is inevitable. Whether I let go now, eventually it will snap and I will fall.

"Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release.

Wish for falling through the air to give me some relief.

Because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace.

It's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief." - Florence and the Machine (Falling)

There’s no problem with falling. The problem is hitting the ground. Will I land on my feet? Will I start running? Or will it be so hard I’ll be forced to stay down? Will I recover from the pain? Will I survive the landing?

That’s why I need to walk in the dark, and keep walking. Bumping into things I don’t like. Finding things that are harmless and good. Facing the scary things, dealing with the difficulties. 

The things I learn in the dark will prepare me for when the time comes for the fall. And it won't always be dark. Eventually, there will be light.  

Blessed reassurance

I find poetry to be a good way to slow down and take stock of what is happening in my life.

Sometimes it surges from within me and I consider that a blessing. Other times I have to wait (a really long time) to nurture an idea until it is ready to be birthed, I consider that an even greater blessing. Sometimes the title comes to me in an instant, without me having to think too hard.

This time I settled for an abstract-but-not-that-abstract-if-you-really-think-about-it title. Something that I need, something that everyone needs to affirm their direction. Reassurance.

There is something about “surety” that offers you an uncompromised security. I feel like God has been trying to make me understand that is what He offers, but my human thinking cannot comprehend His supernatural promises. So this is something He reminded me about Him. This is His reassurance.  

Leave it to me

I will take care

Of your worry

And you will share

All the good things

The divine love

The truth it brings

The fruit thereof

My existence

The perfection

The completeness

Eclipse your sin

Those shortcomings

That regretful

Shamefulness stings

But be hopeful

I do take care

Of all the things

Do not despair

My good news rings

The morning light

Defeats the dark

The dead of night

Will leave no mark

See the fullness

Of my glory

All the goodness

Of my story

Know the son

He is the one.

Driving Lessons 2.0

Right now my greatest challenge is driving.  From pulling into a parking bay to navigating my way to a venue. It’s a miracle if I don’t bump a car, get to an appointment on time (given Jo’burg traffic) and still have enough petrol in my tank after each journey. No matter how short or simple, if I get to my destination in one piece, I just want to get down on my knees and shout  “Praise Jesus, Hallelujah”!

At the same time, driving is one of those rare therapeutic sessions I get to have.  So there’s a lot of singing, thinking out loud, questions (posed by myself, to myself in the third person), and “Aha” moments or “I should've moved in that gap two robots ago” realisations.

I’ve had the chance to experience South Africa’s goodness on a micro-scopic level.  You know, the part that no one talks about it because it’s so hard to see in the midst of life’s happenings.  For instance, I’ve found that giving someone space to move in ahead of you is a random act of kindness that can make you feel really good about making someone else’s life easier.  I’ve also become acquainted with a few security guards, who’ve kindly helped me get out of a basement parking-lot. (Seriously, there was this one security guard.  If he had a pen and paper, I swear he would’ve drawn a diagram to help me get out of my parking space).

I’ve seen people go the extra mile (not literally) to be kind when driving in traffic. I guess it’s because subconsciously we know all our lives are in danger so we’re all trying to be super nice in an effort to prevent whatever we don’t want to happen from happening.

Of course, there’s the occasional woman who hysterically hoots at you (happened twice, different women, separate occasions. I was probably wrong, not turning towards oncoming traffic was very silly of me.  What was I thinking?  Probably just trying to stay alive I guess. Or the other time when I wasn’t moving fast enough in a traffic jam.  Surely, I should just drive into the car in front of me so that you don’t have to wait in traffic, like everyone else). 

I have no hard feelings, and although at the time those women made me feel a cocktail of emotions (anger, frazzledness, confusion, humiliation) I’ve learnt to rise above their aggression and speak blessings over their lives, instead of cussing or calling them morons.

Last weekend I did my first trip home alone. Every time I’ve driven home (132km away), I’ve had a passenger.  I didn’t expect anything to go seriously wrong.  Sure, I was a bit nervous, but I tried to be as cautious as possible.  My trip would’ve been great if my GPS didn’t take me through some dodgy back route past farms.  

For 10km I kept telling myself, you just need to keep driving because there’s no way you’ll get out of here if you just stop. It started raining, and my GPS decided to die. I wanted to crap myself, but realised I couldn’t because I was driving and there were no toilets nearby and getting out of the car would put me in more danger.

I pulled over to the side of the road, just shaking.  And the only thing “Myself in the third person” could yell at me was: “You just have to do this. You can’t turn back.  You have to do this yourself.  You’re a journalist.”  Yes, in my moment of need, the only motivation my conscious could muster up was “You’re a journalist”.  And it’s true, many times when I find something difficult to do, I tell myself that there’s no way around it.  If I can’t do this tiny thing, there’s no way I can do my job.

It bothers me that the first thing that came to my mind wasn’t “You’re a strong Christian woman”.  Or, “God loves you, no weapon formed against you will prosper.”  Or “You can do this, you have Christ in you, the hope of glory”. 

In the last few weeks I thought I had been drawing from God.  Leaning on Him and trusting Him for life.  But once again, my actions reveal that I still want to do things by my own strength.  I still believe that I can save myself. 

Sure, in the moment “You’re a journalist” got me to man-up and start the car and keep driving.  But how long will that last?  What happens when “You’re a journalist” doesn’t work. What do I draw from?  Who do I lean on?  (Between us, myself in the third person is a complete idiot, I don’t think I can rely on her for substantial life advice). Eventually I saw a familiar landmark and just followed the road, arriving home safely.

Something else has been getting to me and it’s the ridiculousness of what I consider to be problems.  At the beginning of this post I said my biggest challenge was driving.  Not to rub my not-problems in anyone’s face, but those aren’t problems.  I have no problems, and I’ve been going through life like I have the world on my shoulders.

I met an 8 year old who’s going through an identity crisis.  He’s been adopted (that’s one) and he was born Muslim but has to reconcile his beliefs with his adoptive family who are Christians.  He’s 8 years old and he has to deal with a fundamental shift of his values. I’m 23 and paying for a parking ticket overwhelms me (I have no problems).

So after all of this- what’s the point of my story?

I’m still learning to accept God’s grace, freely given, undeserved favour. And no matter how insignificant, my not-problems still tell a story of God’s grace, as much as anyone else’s problems. Seriously, I wake up in the morning and my only concern is traffic. Not food, clothes, or my job. I have nothing to complain about.  Nothing to be angry about. If that isn’t grace, then you’ve just wasted three good minutes reading about a woman who speaks to herself and is in denial about her terrible driving.

Love natural

I've never harboured strong, antagonistic feelings towards Valentine's Day (Okay, maybe I did when I was a teenager.  But teenagers have strong antagonistic feelings towards everything).  I'm not crazy-obsessed about the day either.  In fact I think my borderline-indifferent affections towards Valentine’s Day are pretty healthy. 

A day to express love is a fantastic idea (and probably one of the few good inventions by humanity).  If we could walk in love and peace every day, appreciating each other and making everyone feel really special, people would be happy to be alive.  That's something to be excited about, and clearly something we should all be thrilled to be part of. 

I'm stealing this straight from the pulpit- because it blew my mind, and maybe your mind will be blown too.  So, God is love, and if we are made in the image of God that means that we are made for love. We are made to give love and we are made to receive love.  Why would we deny ourselves the chance to love when it is in our very nature to do that?  So not loving is unnatural, however loving people doesn’t always come naturally. 

It’s a deep thought- but hold onto it, because it all goes downhill from here as I unpack all the gooey reasons we should love Valentine's Day. 

*Disclaimer:  There is no disclaimer this time; I think Valentine's Day is great.  Whether it's over-commercialized or not.  We need to spend more of our days being kind and caring towards each other. 

10. Chocolatey goodness

My earliest memory of Valentine's Day involves chocolate.  Clearly this day is about receiving these delectable brown milk products, and then wolfing them down (very classy).  Good news is no one can judge you because on Valentine's Day you don't need an excuse or reason to eat them. 

9. Flowers

Every girl likes flowers.  No matter what she says (even if she’s allergic).  Nature’s raw perfume is just … aaah.  And if you’re really cheap, they’re great because you can just pick them from a garden. 

  

8.  Will Shakes

Shout out to the guy who taught me how guys should talk to me (and how guys shouldn't talk to me).  All those lewd lines eclipsed by that beautiful poetry. 

“The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars

As daylight doth a lamp. Her eye in heaven

Would through the airy region stream so bright

That birds would sing and think it were not night.

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.

Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand

That I might touch that cheek!”- Romeo

Seriously, just cut my heart out right now. 

7.  Saturday!

Normally Valentine’s Day doesn’t fall on a weekend so people hardly celebrate it.  With it being on a Saturday this year, it’s sort of compulsory to do something.  So my friends are ditching me for their significant others, but the good news is (or really sad news) is that there are plenty of people without love.  So tomorrow will be a good day to spread some love to the needy.  Join a charity drive, hang out at an orphanage, add value to the world. 

6.  Rom-coms

Perfect night in.  90s movie marathon.  Blanket (in the heat of Summer).  Popcorn (and buddy cokes).  Settled. (Alternatively, you could actually watch Valentine’s Day.  The movie is actually made for the day.  And it’s got plenty of actors in “leading parts” so you won’t be upset if you don’t like a particular couple- there’s one you’re bound to like).    

5.  You can wear red

I’m pretty sure everyone looks good in red, if they don't then that’s just unfair.  It’s a primary colour and the name of Taylor Swift’s 2012 studio album.  See- no odds against it.    

4. Music

That cheesy music about a mountain not being high enough to keep you away from love, as you browse through the options of lettuce in the supermarket.  You don’t get that in any other time of the year. 

3.  Give-aways

There’s always some media promotion or competition going on.  “Two tickets for all you can eat at this very classy restaurant”.  No one says you have to take a person with you.  You could essentially eat limitless meals for two, ALL BY YOURSELF.  (It’s called commitment). 

2. Intro-spection

Here’s a chance to examine your heart.  Examine your walk.  Are you walking in love?  Or selfishness?  Hard questions, but you have to ask them at some point.  Do it now, February is still the early part of the year.   

1. Love people

You shouldn't need a reason or an explanation.  

  

Tarantism

All my life (23 years) I've had a second party supervise my actions and give reasonable guidance for the decisions I've had to make.  Subsequently, at the appliance section of a supermarket, I found it challenging to decide which brand of iron to buy without anyone to consult about my purchase decision.

My parents were eager to kick me out of their nest and becoming accustomed to this new found freedom and independence has been as liberating as it is painful.

Being alone has never been a problem for me. That was until I had to hang curtains, wipe down kitchen cupboards, clear out a clutter of spiders inhabiting my bathroom and navigate the city's freeways and complicated exits all by myself.

The "You're an adult, that means you have to solve your own problems" penny dropped when I got pulled over by metro-cops.  A routine licence check at 10pm on a Friday night proved to be intimidating.  It was just me, a cop and God (whom I'm relying on more and more to get through most of these "adult-days").          

It was when I had to board a plane without anyone to send me off (besides the cab guy who had just ripped me off) when I decided:  I need a person.

Yes the Shonda Rhimes definition of "person".  Until now I didn't realise the depth of Cristina Yang telling Meredith Grey in a bar that she was her "person".  Sometimes when things get heavy, I just want Cristina to come over and dance it out.  

Tarantism: (n.) Overcoming melancholy by dancing; the uncontrollable urge to dance. (FACEBOOK)

I always fancied myself as some version of Cristina, but more often than not, I'm Meredith.  I want my independence, but I also want to be taken care of.  Cristina is the strong, powerful, independent woman we want to be.  We want to be the best professionals, we want to follow our passion no matter the cost, that is until we realize the price of being extraordinary.

Cristina's had terrible things happen to her (i.e. her fiancé leaving her at the altar, her military doctor boyfriend strangling her in her sleep, conducting surgery on Meredith's husband with a gun held to her head, an abortion, a divorce, surviving a plane crash). Her heart bleeds too, she makes difficult decisions too, she's just really good at rising above the things that try to tear her down.

Meredith was always the dark one and Cristina was the ray of light (or twisted companion) she needed.  Every time something bad happened to Meredith, Cristina would crawl into her bed (at any given hour, without fail) and they'd talk about it.

It was the perfect arrangement for dealing with stuff.  Sometimes things were so bad, there were no solutions and Cristina would just turn up the music and they would start dancing.  So while I was scrubbing a toilet bowl with my academic hands, I kept hoping my person would walk through the doors, turn up a song from our youth (the likes of Blur or the Spice Girls) and then we'd start dancing mindlessly across the filthy tiles I hadn't yet cleaned.

However, having a person as strong-willed as Cristina means that when they grow, sometimes you get left behind. Eventually Cristina took a job in Zurich, heading ground-breaking heart surgery research.  Meredith stayed behind and now she crawls into Alex Karev's (this guy who's doing a half-rate job of being her person) bed when she wants to talk about her problems.
    
I've had person(s).  They've moved in and out of my life, but they've always come through when I needed them to.  One of them actually used to dance with me.  Indie-folk blared through the room on random occasions, not all melancholic but indeed necessary for whatever we were going through.  But now, that person is preparing to be a Chartered Accountant based in Cape Town and I have to get used to doing life without her.    

Before leaving, Cristina had one last dance with Meredith. There was nothing quite as fitting for them to part ways. I think Meredith will learn to grow and move on too. Sometimes that means not having a person, because the best thing for you at that stage is to be your own person.

No more relying on someone to distract you from reality. No more dancing around problems.  You have to choose what iron to buy. You have to be the law-abiding citizen. You have to board a plane alone. You are your person.