The other night I flew into a rage. I was so upset at my son that I had to leave the room. Still, I let him have it, voicing my disappointments loud enough for him to hear. He had done something so repeatedly that I questioned his conscience. When I returned to the room, I found him in tears, but I didn't comfort him. I couldn't yet - not when my boiling had only reduced to a simmer.
After getting more words of disappointment off my chest, I began to have a tingling of regret. Nonetheless, my ego wasn't about to retreat. I resisted going to him. Instead, I summoned him to myself and he dragged himself wearily in my direction. When he was near enough, still wearing my frown, I bit my tongue and held him. In my arms, his tears rolled down even faster. I remained angry but I knew not to let go.
Horrible thoughts raced through my mind - thoughts about his lack of consideration and selfishness, worries about him growing up with apathy towards what is clearly wrong, resentments that I had to do the hard job of instilling self-discipline while his father only had to engage in pleasantries for a few minutes each week, fears that I was probably not respected or loved by my son in comparison, concern that I had probably gone too far in my stinging words, worry that I might have pushed my son further away emotionally, doubt that I was being a good parent. Before long, I too began to shed tears.
He noticed, and in that moment a shift began. Our tears continued to flow for some minutes more, in silence; in acceptance. Then we began to talk to each other.
Still holding him, I asked him what the purpose was of doing what he had done so many times. He told me it was because if he did what he was supposed to do, he would have missed out on some fun, but if he did what he did instead, he could have his fun before getting into trouble. We continued to chat and I learned some important information about my son's present needs. Within minutes, he held on to me tighter and I knew he had felt heard.
As his tired head nestled against my arm, my son's forgiveness of my rage was loud and clear, without him saying a word. We were no longer just mother and son, but two humans respecting each other's fallibility. This made it easier for us both to then talk about alternative responsible actions and
how to make amends for wrongs done without missing out on fun. We didn't let go of each other that night, right up until we were both fast asleep. Isn't it said that the best part about having a fight is making up?
Confrontations in relationships are a bit like having pimples. When they surface, it doesn't look or feel nice. We get embarrassed by them and hope no one else notices. Yet a confrontation can bring up a lot that we have attempted to contain that really need a release. Many conflicts in a relationship occur as a result of either party or both feeling not accepted, respected, appreciated or understood. While the emotions can be raw and intense, paying attention to these unmet needs can be a way of discovering a deeper, healthier connection.
Tuesday 15 April 2014
Monday 14 April 2014
Esther
I hid my excitement when I interviewed Esther for she might have thought it bizarre that an oyinbo (foreign) lady found her intriguing. Esther was from the Niger Delta, a region I read so much about and longed to visit. She was my sister in height and the sort of lady who looks away to giggle while calling your name when you make a joke.
I got to know Esther for the one and a half years that I lived in a city called Abuja, the capital of Nigeria. She worked as a member of the 'maintenance' crew of the school I led. When we launched the Vital Links program to help our more elite students understand how the 'real Nigeria' lives, Esther was the first I called upon to speak - and boy did she speak! Our little giggling Esther summoned up the immense power of her spirit to rock our entire hall.
Compared to most Nigerian cities, Abuja boasts of luxury and the availability of foreign consumer products. However, for the average Nigerian like Esther, Abuja is a hub of cruelty. Esther does not have the comfort of living in a gated compound and has to travel for an hour or more to get into town, squashed like a sardine in one or two rickety buses, to earn roughly $100 per month. This is in a city where the aggregate cost of living is higher than any European city, with no government safety nets. Like they say in Nigeria, "You are on your own!"
Esther and most others in her rank of employment live on the border of another state just to be able to afford a small dimly-lit 2-room apartment where she and several other family members may shield themselves from the elements and share something of a family life. Esther has children of her own and those who belong to her sister to feed, clothe, educate, go to court on behalf of, and buy medicines for - all on her paltry $100 a month. Yet a large chunk of this money goes on daily transport where she must suffer countless indignities as a woman with no personal space amongst other men.
When people like Esther get to work, an elite employer who straddles in an hour late might penalise her for the few minutes she might be late, even though her own lateness might have been due to the growing strain on her back or legs, or a sudden government order which affects buses on her route.
There is no such thing as notice for government orders in Abuja. You just deal with them as they come, and if bus restrictions happen to come during the rainy season, making you walk for an extra half an hour in the mud with your load to get to a bus, catching pneumonia in the process, "you are on your own!"
Esther is a woman of faith. She prays every day and fasts for redemption from her living conditions. She prays with her family by the light of a lantern hung from the ceiling and she prays at the night vigils her church organises regularly, because people like Esther can only have faith in God. No one else seems to hear their prayers.
Esther would change her clothes after work into something glamorous, as if she was about to hit the town for a social night out with her lady friends, when all she was really going to do was take the bus home. Playing a bit and taking joy in the little things was what she had to do to keep her head up. I would often tease Esther that she looked so fine that she made me look like her grandma. She would look away, giggle and call my name.
Recently, bombs have started exploding in "motor parks" where people like Esther take their buses to work. Bombs do not usually discriminate, but in Nigeria they do. In Nigeria, bombs succeed in killing only those who are poor; only those who toil each day to provide a single dim light by which their children might study; only those whose native lands have been poisoned or stolen by elite companies and politicians; only those who have migrated to seek a better future for their children, only those labour and markets rebase the country's GDP to rival South Africa's.
Esther, I miss your giggles and pray you are safe!
I got to know Esther for the one and a half years that I lived in a city called Abuja, the capital of Nigeria. She worked as a member of the 'maintenance' crew of the school I led. When we launched the Vital Links program to help our more elite students understand how the 'real Nigeria' lives, Esther was the first I called upon to speak - and boy did she speak! Our little giggling Esther summoned up the immense power of her spirit to rock our entire hall.
Compared to most Nigerian cities, Abuja boasts of luxury and the availability of foreign consumer products. However, for the average Nigerian like Esther, Abuja is a hub of cruelty. Esther does not have the comfort of living in a gated compound and has to travel for an hour or more to get into town, squashed like a sardine in one or two rickety buses, to earn roughly $100 per month. This is in a city where the aggregate cost of living is higher than any European city, with no government safety nets. Like they say in Nigeria, "You are on your own!"
Esther and most others in her rank of employment live on the border of another state just to be able to afford a small dimly-lit 2-room apartment where she and several other family members may shield themselves from the elements and share something of a family life. Esther has children of her own and those who belong to her sister to feed, clothe, educate, go to court on behalf of, and buy medicines for - all on her paltry $100 a month. Yet a large chunk of this money goes on daily transport where she must suffer countless indignities as a woman with no personal space amongst other men.
When people like Esther get to work, an elite employer who straddles in an hour late might penalise her for the few minutes she might be late, even though her own lateness might have been due to the growing strain on her back or legs, or a sudden government order which affects buses on her route.
There is no such thing as notice for government orders in Abuja. You just deal with them as they come, and if bus restrictions happen to come during the rainy season, making you walk for an extra half an hour in the mud with your load to get to a bus, catching pneumonia in the process, "you are on your own!"
Esther is a woman of faith. She prays every day and fasts for redemption from her living conditions. She prays with her family by the light of a lantern hung from the ceiling and she prays at the night vigils her church organises regularly, because people like Esther can only have faith in God. No one else seems to hear their prayers.
Esther would change her clothes after work into something glamorous, as if she was about to hit the town for a social night out with her lady friends, when all she was really going to do was take the bus home. Playing a bit and taking joy in the little things was what she had to do to keep her head up. I would often tease Esther that she looked so fine that she made me look like her grandma. She would look away, giggle and call my name.
Recently, bombs have started exploding in "motor parks" where people like Esther take their buses to work. Bombs do not usually discriminate, but in Nigeria they do. In Nigeria, bombs succeed in killing only those who are poor; only those who toil each day to provide a single dim light by which their children might study; only those whose native lands have been poisoned or stolen by elite companies and politicians; only those who have migrated to seek a better future for their children, only those labour and markets rebase the country's GDP to rival South Africa's.
Esther, I miss your giggles and pray you are safe!
Sunday 13 April 2014
Maria
She didn't get along with most people and it was rare to see her smile. But get her onto the right topic and her entire face lit up. A flush of colour would penetrate her lips and even the medication that left her skin so withered could not prevent the instant moisturising of her cheeks.
I met Maria when I was 18 during the nine months I spent volunteering at Alloa Nursing Home. She was seated upright on her bed when I first came into her room. She wore her usual stoic look that day and demanded that she be moved to another room. When I sat down next to her, Maria told me that she was tired of being in a room where people kept dying. There were two beds in her room for Maria could not afford a private suite, and the last three people who were placed with her died frighteningly at night. Due to her health condition, she was not permitted to have any salt or sweetener, but the appalling blandness of her food paled in comparison to living in what had become a morgue. After more pleading, the doctors and nurses agreed to move Maria into a room of her own, albeit no bigger than a prison cell. We decided to have our chats in the spacious lounge room instead.
Each day I would visit, Maria would be ready and waiting. Sometimes she waited by the glass panels that overlooked the street where I would walk from the train station up to the Home. Maria told me about her trip by sea from Malta to Australia, and her life as a newly-married debutante. She lived the high life in those days - parties, evening gowns, glamorous coiffures, and the exclusive attention of a very handsome and wealthy man. Not having any other relative in Australia, Maria relied totally upon her husband to survive. She never considered pursuing employment or an education, so when the love of her life died, Maria's life went to the grave with him. For fifteen years, she struggled alone, without a single friend. Her late husband's family took no notice of her once he was gone, and she had no children to grow up and care for her.
The highlight of Maria's days was my visit. I would bring her make-up and exotic scarves to make her feel like a saucy young thing again. I would play the piano with her to help her bring to life the songs played before then only in her memories. But most of all, I would listen - to the times when she was alive - and in those thirty minutes or three hours that she would talk, I would see Maria resurrect from her grave - for a fleeting moment.
Many of us are like Maria. Our physical bodies sleep and wake in cyclical motion throughout each day, yet we still only live in the past. Our thoughts and emotions get stuck and we can't seem to move on - until the day we begin to see that we are not really alone, and that embracing each new day does not mean letting go of whatever meant the world to us before.
Maria has passed on now, but I feel blessed to have seen her smile, and one glorious day to have even heard her laugh.
I met Maria when I was 18 during the nine months I spent volunteering at Alloa Nursing Home. She was seated upright on her bed when I first came into her room. She wore her usual stoic look that day and demanded that she be moved to another room. When I sat down next to her, Maria told me that she was tired of being in a room where people kept dying. There were two beds in her room for Maria could not afford a private suite, and the last three people who were placed with her died frighteningly at night. Due to her health condition, she was not permitted to have any salt or sweetener, but the appalling blandness of her food paled in comparison to living in what had become a morgue. After more pleading, the doctors and nurses agreed to move Maria into a room of her own, albeit no bigger than a prison cell. We decided to have our chats in the spacious lounge room instead.
Each day I would visit, Maria would be ready and waiting. Sometimes she waited by the glass panels that overlooked the street where I would walk from the train station up to the Home. Maria told me about her trip by sea from Malta to Australia, and her life as a newly-married debutante. She lived the high life in those days - parties, evening gowns, glamorous coiffures, and the exclusive attention of a very handsome and wealthy man. Not having any other relative in Australia, Maria relied totally upon her husband to survive. She never considered pursuing employment or an education, so when the love of her life died, Maria's life went to the grave with him. For fifteen years, she struggled alone, without a single friend. Her late husband's family took no notice of her once he was gone, and she had no children to grow up and care for her.
The highlight of Maria's days was my visit. I would bring her make-up and exotic scarves to make her feel like a saucy young thing again. I would play the piano with her to help her bring to life the songs played before then only in her memories. But most of all, I would listen - to the times when she was alive - and in those thirty minutes or three hours that she would talk, I would see Maria resurrect from her grave - for a fleeting moment.
Many of us are like Maria. Our physical bodies sleep and wake in cyclical motion throughout each day, yet we still only live in the past. Our thoughts and emotions get stuck and we can't seem to move on - until the day we begin to see that we are not really alone, and that embracing each new day does not mean letting go of whatever meant the world to us before.
Maria has passed on now, but I feel blessed to have seen her smile, and one glorious day to have even heard her laugh.
Saturday 12 April 2014
Finding a calling
For most of my adult life I struggled with the question of who I was and what my unique purpose was. I found myself internally resisting any pressure to become a clone of another person and yet I had no idea what my calling was. I thought there must be one thing I, and only I, could offer the world.
It's said that variety is the spice of life and it certainly is for me. I love it - from trying out new food to exploring new corners of the earth, to meeting people from a tribe I never encountered before, to taking up a new course, to reading a book about something wildly different. I have worked in so many fields that potential employers feel stumped about what I specialise in.
Being boxed is also something I find myself resisting. I don't like being defined as a particular personality type or cultural group or profession, as if it is static and I cannot be or do anything else. I am both reserved and sociable, a business-woman and a social worker, a socialist and a liberal, an orthodox and a radical, a free spirit and an ancient traditionalist. Flexibility and being able to stretch is very important to me.
So how does a person like me, with her hands in so many pies, find out what my calling is? Using the approach of self-questioning, I wondered if it was to be a mother. My inner voice replied, "You are a mother but that is not all you are." I wondered if my calling was to be a builder of opportunities for the vulnerable. Again, my inner voice replied that that was not all. I wondered if my calling was to be a traveller, but the same feeling came over me, that a traveller wasn't all I was. I wondered whether I was to be a healer, or a mentor, or a daughter of Rabia (the great sufi mystic), but in each case, I couldn't pin myself down to any one of them.
Then I realised that nothing in life is static. Everything changes over time. Why was I restricting myself to ONE calling? Why did I have to specialise in only one thing? Why couldn't I be a reflection of the incredible diversity that exists in the universe? Why did I have to choose one favourite colour or one favourite food or one favourite passion? Surely, parents should not be forced to choose a favourite child when each one stirs up in us another aspect of a deep and intense love that has no end. Perhaps the problem has never been my lack of a calling but the fact that I have been denying my own abundance.
Now I know that my callings consist of many different colours and threads, and as I weave all my callings together, they form a beautiful tapestry of my life. I realise now that it is THAT work of diversity, that beautiful mosaic, that rich heritage of wisdom and manifestations, it is THAT tapestry that makes me unique. It is my tapestry that I am called to live, and a single spirit in multiple manifestations is who I am.
It's said that variety is the spice of life and it certainly is for me. I love it - from trying out new food to exploring new corners of the earth, to meeting people from a tribe I never encountered before, to taking up a new course, to reading a book about something wildly different. I have worked in so many fields that potential employers feel stumped about what I specialise in.
Being boxed is also something I find myself resisting. I don't like being defined as a particular personality type or cultural group or profession, as if it is static and I cannot be or do anything else. I am both reserved and sociable, a business-woman and a social worker, a socialist and a liberal, an orthodox and a radical, a free spirit and an ancient traditionalist. Flexibility and being able to stretch is very important to me.
So how does a person like me, with her hands in so many pies, find out what my calling is? Using the approach of self-questioning, I wondered if it was to be a mother. My inner voice replied, "You are a mother but that is not all you are." I wondered if my calling was to be a builder of opportunities for the vulnerable. Again, my inner voice replied that that was not all. I wondered if my calling was to be a traveller, but the same feeling came over me, that a traveller wasn't all I was. I wondered whether I was to be a healer, or a mentor, or a daughter of Rabia (the great sufi mystic), but in each case, I couldn't pin myself down to any one of them.
Then I realised that nothing in life is static. Everything changes over time. Why was I restricting myself to ONE calling? Why did I have to specialise in only one thing? Why couldn't I be a reflection of the incredible diversity that exists in the universe? Why did I have to choose one favourite colour or one favourite food or one favourite passion? Surely, parents should not be forced to choose a favourite child when each one stirs up in us another aspect of a deep and intense love that has no end. Perhaps the problem has never been my lack of a calling but the fact that I have been denying my own abundance.
Now I know that my callings consist of many different colours and threads, and as I weave all my callings together, they form a beautiful tapestry of my life. I realise now that it is THAT work of diversity, that beautiful mosaic, that rich heritage of wisdom and manifestations, it is THAT tapestry that makes me unique. It is my tapestry that I am called to live, and a single spirit in multiple manifestations is who I am.
Something's got to give
Two weeks ago, I hit rock bottom. My finances were so in the red that I considered going without food until it became affordable again. After all, people have survived for many days on just water. Surely, with mental focus, I could too.
As it turned out, the crisis was a shove in the right direction. I became fed up of my finances spiraling ever further downwards and told myself, "That's it! This cannot go on any longer. Something's got to give. I MUST get out of this rut NOW!" So I made an intention that I would drop my professional ambitions and seek work as a cleaner if it would offer immediate employment. Within one day, offers started coming in, all within the same thirty minutes, and ironically none for cleaning.
The outcome of this cowgirl approach to bankruptcy was to take up a full-time management position in the middle of two courses of study. Taking the bull by the horns didn't come without a price. Work was far away from my children, and cost us a total of nearly two extra hours a day we wouldn't see each other, besides the hours the kids spent at school and the hours I spent in class. For a single mother and her kids, this price is rather heavy.
Besides the health risk of staying up till midnight every night to do housework and assignments, the children were not happy. Each day, they would ask, "Mama, are you going to come home at the same time AGAIN today? You only come when we are getting ready for bed!" These words struck a deep chord inside me. I recalled how I felt when I would wait every day till 9pm or later just to have a conversation with my partner, only to find that by 9pm he was so mentally and physically drained that he could hardly be present for me. I realised the same thing was happening with myself. I was coming home and would sit with the children, but I wasn't fully with them.
I wasn't going to let that continue. The kids didn't have their dad. I would not allow myself to be absent too. And so I thought again, "Something's got to give."
It did give. Not more than three days had passed since I commenced work when I told my employer that I wanted to work only part time from the office because I need to establish my boundaries from the outset, and I am not going to allow my relationship with my children to be compromised. On my deathbed, I doubt I would regret being broke, but I WOULD regret being blind, deaf and dumb to my children while I still had all my senses intact! To my surprise, my employer accepted this and suddenly more opportunities to make money from home opened up. How blessed I feel to have exactly what many parents long to be made available to them.
I ask myself what would have happened if I had been declined. What would I have done if I was fired because of my demands? Well, I had already decided the outcome. When I said, "something's got to give", it was definitely not going to be my relationship with my kids. In a sense, the job had no choice but to comply or get out of the way for one that would!
Now I know it's not that simple for some people, but what's to say it can't be? We often trade off what is important to us for the sake of what is convenient or what requires less challenge to ourselves. If you are committed to the life you want, the power of intention is mind-blowing.
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