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.