"Thug No Show Love"

In the spirit of St. Valentine's Day - which, it seems, is spread across all of February - I thought I'd feature love poems in this month's posts. I came across this one a little over a year ago. It's by a Jamaican, Joan Andrea Hutchinson, and it's written in Jamaican patois. I remember reading it for a few friends shortly after I "discovered" it. What a challenge to get through it without cracking up! The irony tickled me to pieces!

Thug No Show Love

                    - Joan Andrea Hutchinson ©2007

 Baby mi love yuh and yuh done well and know

But a guy can’t too meck him feelings show

Yuh feel mi love and dat suppose to enough

But man a man and man haffie flex tough

So no expect mi fi come wid no lovey dovey love

Cause man a thug, an thug no show love.

Mi will tidy house an help yuh wash plate

Change baby diaper, iron cook an bake

Wash yuh hair an massage yuh body all night long

Hug up an dance like grandpa when mi hear love song

But outa street mi no eena di smoochie smoochie love

For man a thug, an thug no show love.

Most people no know say mi have a romantic side

Mi will give yuh sweet an tender loving till yuh clide

At home mi will bow, cause yuh control di remote

An mi ready fi go front a parson go teck oath

But John Public no haffie know bout mi romantic love

For man a thug… an thug no show love.

Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did! By the way, did you remember to put on that deep "thug"  voice? No? Okay. Scroll up and read it again - in your "thug" voice.

Funnier now, isn't it?

Claudia

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

Freefall Writing: I fell. Hard.

"It’s not the number of times you’ve fallen, it’s the number of times you get back up that matters."

"Look ma! No hands!"

"It's not the fall that kills you, it's the sudden stop."

"Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!"

We’ve all heard them. Many of us have experienced one or more of those famous lines at one point or another. The one that had me thinking, though, was the last one: “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” And, even before getting deeper into that, just now, it reminded me of a rather apt song covered in a spectacular way by Tina (the head) Turner: “Help” 

Yeeaah. I’ve fallen. In love. But not in love with anyone. Nope. Technically, in order to be in love with someone, you have to be in it together, no? Yeeaah. So, no.

Fallen in love by myself. And, that sucks, and blows – at the same time.

Ok. Seriously. You can perhaps tell I’m about to have a Pity Party. I'm allowed one day. You coming? If not; if you think this is gonna make you feel kinda cute and intrusive, now would be a good time to stop reading.

January has been a crappy start to the New Year. Crap-py. I can hardly wait for February to begin. I am chomping at the bits! I wanna be able to refer to all this – if at all – as happening "last month." Then, later, "a few months ago." Until, of course, we get to the "last year" reference. Usually – well for the past umpteen years – I adore a New Year! I love it. After a really bad break-up years ago, I experienced a most glorious shedding of the old and welcoming the new when January 1 hit the following year. I felt light! Like scales of negativity and sadness and the bad and the ugly, between December 31 and 12:01a.m. January 1, had miraculously disappeared. It was an awesome feeling! So, no matter how crappy stuff gets during the year, I know, come December 31 into January 1, if I'm still around, I’m gonna come out feeling light, new and fresh!

I felt that way on January 1 this year, too. Had a bit of an inkling about something, truth be told. But, for the most part, I was looking forward to wonderful – until a few days later. Apparently, I had fallen. And, on that fateful afternoon, I realized (a) He did not want to catch me – for reasons that he shared (b) He did not catch me – I fell on my butt. Wanna kiss it? (c) I had had a hard fall – harder than I'd cared to admit, actually, and (d) it was time to give up – on ever being loved. Ever.

Note the distinction: giving up on ever being loved. I did not, and will never, give up on Love Love. I believe in true love (as tautological as that sounds). I have beheld true love in action. I believe it is amazing and has power and can bring on a sense of belonging like you’ve never experienced before. I believe it is a beautiful thing and it makes the world livable and gentle and soft. I believe true love between two people makes them feel like they're home. It makes them overlook each other’s faults because they realize neither is perfect and they are happier together than apart. I believe in that love with all my heart, and I will continue to believe in it, and write about the virtue and blessing of it, until the pen has to be pried from my cold dead hand.

But, I don’t think I will ever experience it.

My heart is now more band-aid than heart. This time around, my eyelids were constantly puffy. Crying every night is wont to do that, I s'pose. I put on a brave and smiling face as I honoured a commitment to attend an event sometime after. The guest of honour greeted me with a hug, and a kiss on the cheek. We took a picture together. When I looked at the pic, in the words of Shaggy, It wasn’t me! I was smiling, but my eyes were not. I was just thankful that, if anyone had in fact noticed, they'd been too polite to say stteo, “Your eyes look different..."

I can write this here because, y’know, it's, as we'd say at work, approved content – approved by me. Plus, no identifiers. If he happens to visit this my home in cyberspace, well, then, he'd know. He'd also know I haven't got it twisted. He made my heart glad. He was kind and thoughtful – a gentleman, indeed – and I responded to his kindness and thoughtfulness. I think that's what knocked me over and caused me to fall. I believe he has a good heart. And, someday, he will make someone a loving and wonderful husband, and their children a loving and caring dad. He's a smart, take-charge man and I believe he will be an exemplary, God-honouring head-of-household.

Besides, this is not even the tip of the ice-berg that makes it to my prayer journal. No siree. This is a drop compared to the whole ocean; a snowflake, compared to the whole avalanche… You catch my drift. So it was. Days were for working; nights were for crying and writing. Anyone reading, and can relate, well, just know you’re not alone. Some fall in love with their person and it’s requited and just great. It is. No cynicism. Falling hard in love by yourself happens to the rest of us. Not so great. Sounds like you? Take heart. Your time is coming. When your ship comes in, you will be not be at the airport. You will be exactly where you need to be at the harbour. You go, you!

I used to live in the hope that true love would come my way and sweep me off my feet and it would be effortless and beautiful. As Monk replied, when he was temporarily blinded in that episode and Natalie was trying to console him that the Dr. had said he’d soon regain sight so there was hope: “I hate hope’s guts!”

Sounds about right, right about now.

Writing it right out of my system. #writeorsuffocate Remember?

Of course I am a person of faith and trust that God knows what He’s about. How do I reconcile this? Easily. The fact that my desire is in His hands and He is holding my heart and He orders my steps, yet He has not granted me this desire, must mean He has other plans. Or, He's fulfilling the desire in a rather winding and crooked way. We always say He grants our desires – as it says in Ephesians – exceeding abundantly above all we ask or think. He does. And, it sure seems like He’s taking the desire and doing something else with it. And, that’s fine. Not like I’m giving Him permission and saying, “Oh, it’s okay, God. That’s okay with me.” No, what I’m saying is, “God, You know. I do not. And that’s okay." I believe in my band-aid covered heart that He can and will take me through this process and on into the upcoming stages and phases and seasons of my life and will not for a moment forsake me. 

I guess if I think with my head for a second, if indeed it's meant to be that one person, it really can't work out with anyone else. *shrugs* I enjoy time together. And, as Gibran said, "Let there be spaces in your togetherness." I like time apart doing things I love. I like taking a genuine interest in and supporting what he's about; being his confidante; focusing on what matters; putting myself out there and knowing I can trust him with my vulnerability.

Ha! I see how far that has got me.

A girlfriend of mine had told me once that maybe I am too nice; that perhaps that's scary. She did add, however, that for the right person, it won't be. :-) My resolve is to treat him like a king; pray for him; make him laugh; show him I am a trustworthy, supportive, and caring friend and lover and partner and queen. He may or may not be six-packing like King Leonidas, but, king. Like, God’s-man-for-me and God's-gift-to-me king. I imagine he'd get me; would read my writing – there's a quote for that. It says something like, as a writer, you shouldn't be with someone who doesn't support your writing. I imagine he'd love me self-sacrificially; treat me with honour and respect, and be the leader in our home – even if I bring home more bacon. And, yes, I'm worth every bit of that. I also imagine we would, with wild abandon, know each other; explore each other's temple and honour the divinity in each other. A lot. There must be chemistry.

But, alas!

Hm. The first thing that gets impacted when I sense the inevitable are my wit and words. I simply can't keep sharing them as before. And, you know how some women appeal, and ask him to reconsider? To use that line from Dorothy in Jerry Maguire: That's not how I'm...built. During that conversation, my heart was saying, "Ask him, ask him, ask him...please!" My head was like, "Whatchya talkin' 'bout Willis?! What's the point?" I see no point in asking someone to stay when he has already made up his mind that he doesn't want to. If there's someone or something else more...'ow you say, (French accent), "stimulating"; catering to his sapiosexuality – or whatever else is being catered to – I am not wired to fight that.

So, what do I do? I do what any self-respecting, band-aid-hearted, gracious, kind and beautiful woman would do: Throw in the towel – I'm done! Share what I can for relatability – slicing my heart open does not hurt as much as having it broken. And, having fallen by myself, get back up and move on.

It’s what I do. 

It’s like my job. And, like my job, I’m good at it.

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Okay.

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Okay. Maybe one more time. Not right now. Clearly. But, I mean, if Mr. Right-for-me is on his way – he might be stuck in traffic, or a tree (It's a jungle out there!) – for his sake, and ours, I'd want to love like I'd never been hurt. The last thing we'd need is baggage that can't fit in the overhead compartment.

After all, hope has a way of floating, and seasons have a way of changing. #SitStillMyDaughter (Ruth 3)

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Okay, folks! Okay. Party's over! No, there are no to-go containers. Thanks for stopping by, but, you have to go now. You don't have to go home, you just have to go. :-)

Me? I'm gonna go load the dishwasher, then get comfy in the chaise sofa and watch a movie.

Which one? Love, actually. ;-)

Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

Freefall Writing: The Pressure. The Promise.

Ohhh! The pressure! The pressure! I feel like a thousand eyes - or pairs of eyes, which would make it two thousand eyes - are on me! Oh, my gosh! Two thousand eyes! Breathe.

I imagine the ideal thing is to try to write a story. Actually, that doesn't make sense. There can be no "ideal thing" in freefall writing, can there? Unless, I suppose, one is working on a story and is writing freefall with that in mind. Clearly, I am not so restrained. My mind just went to the ravine that sits as a lovely backdrop to my living room and kitchen. It has since returned.

I smile when I think of the sights I see from my window. Right now, the ground is covered with snow. It has been this way for the past few weeks. But, we got fresh snow last night and it's easy to tell. No footprints. No disturbance of the soft layer of cotton-y blanket. Another lovely sight is that of squirrels chasing each other up and down the trees that stand bare in the ravine beyond the fence. This morning, there were three of them spiralling up one of the largest trunks. You can spiral up, can't you? Well, not you you. The squirrels, I mean. Anyway, there were those three. Then, another two playing what seemed to be hide-and-seek a few metres away. I even saw a fox over there once. That was last winter. He (or she) hasn't been back. Or, perhaps it's that I haven't seen him or her...it, this time around. I also get quite an array of birds in my neck o' the woods. From owls to blue jays to hawks and...ok, permission to check Google. I need to. It's such a pretty bird and I'd hate to mess up the name.  *hears voice* "Permission granted." Thank you, whoever you are!  It's the Northern Cardinals. Yes. They do come by and they are so pretty to look at. And, of course, numerous sparrows.

Know what else that ravine says? Seasons change. Yeah. My ravine talks. Yours doesn't? Hm. Look at that! I'm sure I've written a post dedicated to that fact before. Not the talking ravine. The 'seasons change' fact. But, to get into it a bit where the forestry outside my window is concerned, it's a joy to behold. The trees underscore that fact of nature, and are a tangible and compelling reminder that seasons do change. Of course, the first thing I grab a hold of is the metaphorical or philosophical angle. To see the buds coming back in spring; full leaves resuming their place on the trees by summer; the change into glorious colours, come fall - coupled with "nature's pruning" somewhere in there - then, bare branches and twigs come winter, in time for that snow-laden, artsy post-cardy look.

I've learned to appreciate that, actually. Seasons change. So much so that when situations get me feeling really awful, I need only remind myself that it's only for a while. Anita Baker had a lovely song out by that title years ago: "Only For a While". I've looked for it on YouTube... "Permission granted." Whoo hoo! It's there now! \o/ I checked a few years ago and it wasn't yet there. And, tonight, as I sorta cheated on this freefall thing - which is not to say that I'm saying that cheating pays. Perish the thought! It's just that I have to 'fess up, is all - I found it! I can go back and link to it now. Heh heh. It's good to know though, isn't it. Bad or awful times don't last. And, if it's one thing I've been reminded of since the start of this year, it's this: Life. Goes. On.

Life does go on. Just keep going. Even if for a little while you're just going through the motions; using up your mechanical memory; existing and not really really living. Keep going. I've found allowing an awful feeling to run its course is a good thing. Just let it. Be upset. Cry 'til there are no more tears but you're crying anyway. Be forlorn. Then, be done with it. In a little while, life will start regaining...life, again. And, don't underestimate the power of love. Love has this...this way about it, whether you're giving it or getting it. Even just the memory of love and lovely moments shared will add a smile to your heart.

I promise.



Note: Had more "fall" in the freefall this time around. I'm gettn there.


Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

Freefall Writing: What Will This Unearth?

Undeniably, this was one way to go. I decided on doing freefall writing for January’s posts, to see what would be unearthed from my subconscious at the beginning of the year. How did I decide how to start this post? I closed my eyes and, when I opened them, the first letter on the keyboard I saw was the ‘U’. Oh. That palindrome was not planned. Just so you  know. Neither was that rhyme. It just happens... Let's move on.

Happy New Year!

They say one is not supposed to edit while doing this kind of writing. “Writing without a parachute”, they call it. I’ve cheated three times already. Shoot. Four. Sigh. Now, Five. I have to live with myself! And spelling errors and typos ought not to count. Speaking of counting, we’re almost 10 days into the New Year. Yes, there are those of us who are wont to keep track of this sort of thing; we just don’t (six!) do it noticeably. My question was gonna be, how’s it going for you so far?

For some, it’s too early to tell. For others – not the we-are-here-to-do-good-to-others-what-the-others-are-here-for-I-don’t-know, others – it’s already clear. Or so they think. You’ve probably heard it before, or seen it written – most likely as a meme on Twitter, because, it appears, almost everything is written on Twitter – that one should not misinterpret a bad day to mean a bad life. So, there’s that. Know what else there is? Yeah. One of my fav quotes: “It’s funny, isn’t it, how one moment can change a million after it.” – Raya (Movie: How She Move) 

That moment might be what we refer to as a God-awful moment or it might be a cherished moment or, it might even be a moment that we don’t notice was “a moment”, until we look back and go, “A-ha!” (Sigh. Seven was in there, somewhere. Sorry.) This freefall writing thing is not for the faint of heart. What was in my head in that alliteration just now was “not for the faint of fart…” I should grow up. Maybe next year. I’m not even into those kinds of jokes. I dunno where that one came from. It must’ve been from the fright of freefalling… That’s some scary stuff. See what I didn't do there? Yes. Stuff.

Whether freefalling in writing or doing that trust fall thing or falling in love, that’s some scary… stuff… right there. (Eleventeenth!) My inner editor? The man frowns on falling. I'm thinking duct tape. Though he might out me when I remove it, telling all and sundry how the skeletons in my closet have skeletons in their closets. Meh! Look at the brighter side. I'm not one of them. Pretty sure in all those cases it wasn't the fall; it was the sudden stop - as that saying goes.

So, yeah, falling/freefalling, is not for the faint of heart. But, let that not stop you! No fear! Need a shot in the arm? How I love Edna’s wake-up call to – okay, I’m gonna have to check IMDB for The Incredibles. One sec –

Helen: [sobbing] Now I'm losing him! What'll I do? What'll I do?

Edna: What are you talking about?

Helen: [stops crying] Huh?

Edna: [shouts] You are Elastigirl! My God...

[swatting Helen with a newspaper] 

Edna: Pull-yourself-together! "What will you do?" Is this a question? You will show him you remember that he is Mr. Incredible, and you will remind him who you are. Well, you know where he is. Go, confront the problem. Fight! Win!

[normal voice]

Edna: And call me when you get back, dahling. I enjoy our visits.

O Em Gee! That is sooo not freefalling! Lol! That is, let-me-jump-from-the-aircraft-with-a-parachute-while-being-seated-in-another-smaller-aircraft-while-watching-a-movie landing! Lol! Ok. For the next post on the 18^th (all being well), I’ll duct tape my inner editor’s mouth; try not to use nouns as verbs (like...that, smh) and really make an effort not to control the freefall.

Except for the typos.

I have to live with myself!

Claudia

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

Tens of Thousands of Words

Road trip!!!

Ahh, yes. The sound of music to a vacationer's ear; a lovely note on which to end this year.

I'm happy to have shared these posts with you in 2013. Glad you took the time to read what I wrote. #writeorsuffocate

The road trip in December took us to Mystic Mountain Rain Forest, St. Ann, Jamaica.  It's easy to understand why folks take dozens, if not hundreds of pics, of a breathtaking view! It's an effort to capture "unphotographable beauty". :-)

The staff at Mystic Mountain were excellent! They helped make the day wonderful and unforgettable.

These pics say tens of thousands of words. Hope you enjoy 'em. Better yet, hope you go!

All the best to you and yours for 2014!

Mount Rosser, St. Ann

Mount Rosser, St. Ann

Mount Rosser, St. Ann

Folks riding the Sky Explorer, Mystic Mountain, St. Ann

End of the line - or the beginning of the next!

The Look-out Tower, Mystic Mountain Rain Forest, St. Ann

Jamaica's motto - "Out of Many, One People" - as it appears on the Coat of Arms

Flora and Fauna in Jamaica

The next few pics: Jamaica's Maritime History

Bobsledding and such

Appleton

The Hummingbird - The National Bird of Jamaica

The Hummingbird - "Doctor Bird"

View from Mystic Mountain Rain Forest, St. Ann

Crystal clear water in the pool at Mystic Mountain

Bobsledder on track

Long water slide - for adults and children - ending in adjacent pool

Bobsledder on track

Sled - pool - slide - view

Mainly for the children...

Visit already! 

Humming Bird

Humming Bird 

View from the Look-out Tower - looking west

Riding the Sky Explorer - 700 ft above sea level - on the way back down

Canopy of trees

A gorgeous day for sailing

Las' lick!

Claudia

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

The Year of the Tomato

This year was The Year of the Tomato. Before you start racking your brain and doubting your knowledge of world and cultural affairs, please note that this title was solely attributed to my home. See, I had tried growing tomatoes for the first time last year. I feel compelled to add a bit of background here. Last year summer, I stopped in at Walmart to purchase a packet or two of seeds - in late July! The Walmart Associate seemed just a tad annoyed that I would ask for seed packets in late July. He let me know that they were no longer available or some such thing. 

But, I was intent on planting. So, Plan B. I got home and made a visit to my fridge. I retrieved two of the store-bought tomatoes and sliced and diced them. I then prepped the soil in my planter box and got to planting. The long and the short? The frost came just as the first blossom did. With a heavy sigh, I uprooted the foot-long plants. They were lush and green but getting by solely on looks was not cutting it. I promised myself to "try again next year."

Last spring, in haste, I made my way back to Walmart - in MARCH! I got all the accouterments for soil preparation and seeds/seedling planting. At the end of April, wanting to follow the instructions to a T, we finally got to planting. (I invited my 4yo niece to participate, thinking that she would enjoy making this journey; seeing her handiwork come to fruition and so on and so forth.) My sis took some pics of the "then," as I had a really good feeling we would have something luscious to capture in the "now." We used the bio-degradable seedling boxes - the ones that you simply stick into the soil outside/in planter box, when the seedlings are a bit grown. I gave my niece her tray of boxes and I kept a few for myself. 

Imagine my horror when, one evening, about three weeks later, (my seedlings having not yet burst forth, but, in an act of clumsiness), I knocked my trays off the work table. This, coupled with the fact that my niece's seedlings had started shooting up, was too much for me to bear. Tears came to my eyes. Why? Why my seedlings? Not to say I was wishing such ill-fortune for my niece's lot, but, after all that effort, I felt the little tomatoes had me beat. I pouted, stooped and scooped up the dirt and poured it back across the trays, refilling each. In the beginning, they had been carefully planted - two seeds in each. Now, I just didn't care!

About a week later, finally! A burst of white and green. I transferred them about two weeks after that, into the planter box. Little did I know the journey was just about to begin. For the next two and a half months, I watered those plants - and waited; talked to them - and waited; nurtured their soil - and waited; infused their water with Miracle-Gro now and then - and waited; tied them to sticks - and waited; changed to longer sticks - and waited. The plants were healthy and big and a few of them were getting all sort of entangled with their neighbours. Friends and family would come by and remark on how lovely they looked. And I agreed. I just wanted to add, "But, I'm not growing tomato plants! I'm growing tomatoes!" Where were the tomatoes? Why were they taking so long my goodness gracious meeee!  It got to where I just told myself that I was just interested in seeing where all this would lead. Even though I could not remember how long the back of the packet had said it would take for them to bear, there was no way on earth - except in the planter box at my home, apparently - should it take this long! But, I kept at it.

I remember it as if it were yesterday. I got home with the intention of transplanting some of them. Maybe they needed even more sunlight? I decided to dig up the ones not-so-entangled and move them to a garden area downstairs. Lo and behold! What did I see? The first blossom! I did my happy dance right there! Then, like any normal Twitter user (a probable oxymoron for another time), I tweeted a picture! You would not believe the joy that welled up in my bosom. Sheer joy. That was about July 10 (as if!) It was July 10. Then came another period of more talking to them - and waiting; watering them - and waiting, etc. On July 30, I spotted the first fruit - or three. Tweeted. I kept nurturing; they enjoyed an occasional shower blessing and more fruits kept coming. When they grew to, what I thought was, an appropriate size, I grew impatient. Again. On August 31, another pic. Another tweet. Another question: "Any day now, ripe?" 

By this time, this felt like a roller-coaster journey. But, I knew I could not hurry the process. I simply had to do my part and Mother Nature would do hers. Come a mere four days later, I spotted the first ripe tomato! The usual: happy dance and tweet. And, "Thank You, God!" I also sent pics to family members and friends. Sheer joy. Not to brag, or anything, but these were some sweet tomatoes! I gave away a few dozens to family and friends and had the pleasure of gracing my meals with my home-grown tomatoes.

Fall came. Many of the plants dried up - the circle of life - but, even then, a few fruits were still coming. I just kept reaping until the frost came.

In this The Year of the Tomato, I learned quite a bit about myself - and my writing journey.

The Voice

Speaking of journeys, this is the morning after the night before Tessanne Chin was announced the winner of NBC's The Voice. I recall reading something she'd said about this being a dream come true; a remarkable place to be on her journey; giving thanks to God for "exceeding abundantly above..." Loved that! Indeed, most dreams do not come true overnight. They take work and commitment - and it doesn't hurt to have strong family support. Congrats again, Tessanne! You are an inspiration to fellow Jamaicans, and people all over the world. I/we wish you all the very best on your new adventure. #WhatARide!

Claudia

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

Mandela's Death is All About Me. And You. And Him.

Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela died last week Thursday, the fifth of December. Mr. Mandela was the main icon of the anti-apartheid revolution and one of the greatest fighters for freedom in modern times. Much has been written about his life and, upon his death, his legacy and impact and inspiration. It is a universally accepted truth that, indeed, the world has lost one of the greatest human beings ever.

It's All About Me
I held Mr. Mandela in high esteem. I recall the moment in Jamaica when friends and I heard he was released from prison in February, 1990. The clanging of pot covers, shouts of joy from hither and yon, and music filled the air - for a long time. At the time, I could not yet wrap my head around the enormity of the significance that his stand, his imprisonment and, then, his release, meant. After all, many of the historic moments were yet to follow. Still, I knew in my own heart I admired this man who stood for something, for so long, against so many strong and unrelenting odds. To overcome all of that, to the point of presidency of South Africa; to the point of continuing to work on behalf of others (even when he had done far more than enough by then), and to the point of inspiring countless lives, all that was a demonstration of an enviable measure of strength, resilience, persistence, humility, graciousness, forgiveness and kindness that few possess. And that is what moved me about his life: He was put through the furnace of affliction and he came out as pure gold.

I honestly don't wish to regurgitate everything we've seen in newspapers from around the globe and in books and so on. (The Toronto Star carried a timeline.) Information is now at our fingertips. What is not at our fingertips; what may not be touched on screen, is the impact and inspiration he was, just by doing what he did with his life. For me, he made the world a better place. He certainly left it better than the way he found it. And, I am so very thankful that our lifetimes intersected. True, I was saddened on hearing the news, but, after quick acceptance, gratitude took over.

It's All About You
There can be, and will ever be, only one Nelson Mandela. You are not him. I imagine that's the balancing act some people, now faced with the breadth and depth of the life of Mr. Mandela, have suddenly found themselves trying to manage. Of course, Mr. Mandela was around for a long time. For some people, the length of time he'd spent in prison was equal to or greater than how long they'd been alive. Since his passing, however, and the fact that news outlets everywhere have been at pains constantly to feed us with all things Mandela, it may be hard for some not to feel overwhelmed, under-valued and unfulfilled. All of a sudden, those folks are thinking that their not-perfect-but-ok life has taken a turn for the inadequate. I'd have one thing to say to them: Stop it. Ok, more than one thing. Remember that bit I'd written a few months ago, encouraging us to arise and shine? Funny, the excerpt by Marianne Williamson is usually attributed to, you guessed it, Nelson Mandela. I saw a tweet with the misappropriated attribution just yesterday. The truth of it still holds, however. And, how fitting that the same sentiment is used to reinforce the point I'm making:

From her book, A Return to Love, this is Marianne’s piece, the excerpt popularly known as: Our Deepest Fear.  (And, no, I don’t know her like that, but I don’t think she’d mind.)

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Hey, you are who you are. And, you are neither called, nor expected, to be anyone else. Shall I start quoting Dr. Seuss up in here?

Today you are you. That is truer than true. There is no one alive who is you-er than you. ~ Dr. Seuss

In the light of Mr. Mandela's life and death and legacy, it would be remiss of you to miss the point of his life. I'm positive that there are many lessons to learn from him. I found this AP report of athletes paying tribute to him particularly heartwarming. But, I believe the essence of his life was this: Do for others. That was it. Do for others. It may be looked at and dissected to reveal: Do something. Stand for something. Help others. Forgive. Be kind. And, so on and so forth. I believe that if we start feeling small in his light, we dishonour his memory and prove ourselves to be bad students. Let it not come true in our own lives - that we learn from history we do not learn from history. (So it has to repeat itself, is the idea.) Let's take the torch and continue the work. It will be alright, in the end. And, as that saying goes, since everything is not yet alright, I can assure you, it is not yet the end.

It's All About Mr. Mandela
After all - and we're not in any way deifying the man - he was one of the great ones. We cannot deny that there was something about him and in him; something that coursed through his veins and heart that made him continue the fight. He deserves the kudos and the accolades and the honours and the esteem and the pedestal and and and. Yes, he had support. But, he, himself, had to - and did - make the choice not to give up. And, after coming forth as pure gold, how magnanimous he was toward his former oppressors; how he lived the exemplary life of forgiveness and kindness. I like that quote from the AP article: "If I hate, I would not be a free man anymore." So thankful for his life and what he did with it.

Remember, remember, the fifth of December. What a life on which the sun set that day.

Walk good, Mr. Mandela.


Claudia
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