Snail mail

'What's your postal address?' A dear friend asked me this question a few days ago, and it produced an instant, heartfelt beam. Don't get me wrong. I'm a huge fan of electronic email. I don't think I would have survived these past few years living away from friends and family without the boons of Skype and email and instant messaging. Within a few seconds I can find out what all 'my' people are cooking in different corners of the world, or if someone is having a bad day, or share a song or article that I like and get immediate feedback. The physical presence of the person might not be there, but you could be face to face sharing the details of your day over a coffee - that's how gloriously immediate communication is today. But getting something in the post? That's a whole other delicious experience entirely. The joy of tearing open an envelope, and reading something handwritten, that's just for you... I don't believe anything in the world feels quite like that. The moment I receive a letter or postcard, I carry it around for days, just to glimpse some inky letters or to have the sudden thrill of brushing against that paper thats all mine, all mine, as I go about my daily business. And when I get asked about my postal address, that means the excitement and anticipation of something coming to a postbox near me really soon. I can barely wait! Hurry up and post the damn thing already...

hashtag tweet hashtag like hashtag brain mush

I've allowed my brain to become mush. Now let's be honest: I've never been the most intelligent or outspoken or articulate of people, but if there was one thing I could do, it was write at length. Not quality, per se, but definitely quantity. That is no longer the case. Where once I could write about lots of nothing in endless paragraphs (pick any previous post on this blog for evidence), it has now become a chore to string one sentence together. I don't think I've composed a decent email or letter in over two years! The story is similar when it comes to reading - sometimes I have to remind myself that an article is more than its headline. Especially now, when the headlines in social media are a bunch of provocative carrot sticks leading one to a whole heap of nothing. Thankfully I'm not partial to the easy-to-read list type of articles... articles that tell you everything from how to clip nose-hairs to why being bad is... bad. Perhaps I don't have the attention span to read beyond item 'one' on a list. I blame myself for this lapse in my reading and writing skills. I became addicted to social media and instant messaging. While several people I know have managed to maintain their communication skills while using these things, I let myself slide into a downward spiral of non-sentence communication, only drawing the line (and haughtily so) at abbreviating to the extent I've seen people do, or shortening words for no good reason (as seen by me, in any case). Why would I write 'gal' when 'girl' will do? And honestly, if you want to wish me a 'had' (an 'hbd'?) don't bother... I'm not sure how much time or energy was saved by shortening 'happy birthday' in that way! I digress. While I didn't get to a very high level of simplification (I do use the 'lol' quite often), I stopped writing sentences... detail... meat... depth... substance. I allowed myself to reach a stage where every mode of non-verbal communication had - in my head - the urgency and required brevity of a tweet, a status update, a quick typing of an instant message. Gone are the days where I could drone on and on about my last cupcake (I'm sure several people are quite glad), and it has reached a stage where I can't find my words. I can't express myself, and it's pretty damn scary. This goes beyond the social media addiction, but it definitely is a big catalyst. I realised deeper dangers when I began using instagram just a few days ago... the pressure to hashtag everything, simplify and categorise had me thinking in snapshots and hashtags the whole day when I first started. It's my fault that I take things to a whole other extreme. I really doubt other people are making up hashtags for everything in their minds, but I guess I'm strangely wired like that. The day of the instagram was a bunch of warning bells in my mind. This stops now. This strange effect I'm allowing to my communication skills. Sorry world, but I'm forcing out the words. ‪#‎conqueringsocialmediaeffectonme

Whispers

There are whispers dancing in my veins... golden and warm like dappled sunlight seen through closed eyelids. They are sepia tones - an artsy movie projected on a silvery screen underneath a midnight sky. Their aroma is freshly brewed coffee wafting into appreciative nostrils. They are excitement and contentment entwined in a tremulously sweet first embrace. They are a lilac bed of Jacaranda blossoms existing only for my viewing pleasure. They are hesitantly hopeful, shy, determined to become a bold voice - just not yet... They are mine alone, and yet universally understood. They are me, but when I am more than me. They are every emotion I have ever felt, and all the ones I have yet to feel - a beginning and culmination in continuum. They are heady whispers floating high... trying to elude the inevitable crash to stark, loud reality.

Moving Day

The last time I moved, it was across countries. I was getting on to a plane, as usual quite unaware of what I was getting into. I'm not known for my ability to look very deep into the future or to fully grasp the consequences of some big decisions. While I love to weigh things, and ruminate, my big decisions are always a snap judgement riding on a wave of emotion. I haven't always been right... but never fatally WRONG either.

It took me a long time to accept that the last time I moved, I was running away. I was unhappy, didn't fit, didn't know where I was headed, didn't feel like I belonged. In retrospect I was unconsciously looking for an escape route; but I honestly didn't realise it then. I had myself convinced I was moving for the sharp increase in salary, and so that I would have enough time to study due to fewer working hours. How else would you explain why someone who had never dreamed of becoming a flight attendant moving to an unknown city and joining of all things an airline?

It's the best decision I ever made. I grew in terms of my personality and confidence (although I've lost some intellectual confidence, which is all my own doing, and I'm working on it), and the sheer number of amazing friends I have made (mainly women) give the word 'girl power' a whole new meaning. Beyonce was right. Girls do run the world. These include the girls I have stayed with in the last five and a half years in this very apartment. They are my sisters here. My family. The shoulders I have soaked up in different times of heartbreak and despair, the ears I have reddened while venting about bad flights, bad haircuts, or simply... bad days. The ones I have embraced this new phase of my life with - independence and maturity. I love them so.

I was so starry eyed when I first walked into this apartment. The very first occupant in a spanking new apartment, in a flashy brand-new high-rise in Dubai. A complete change to the last years of living in a full, rowdy, colourful home in Nairobi; or a sardine in a can of other students in Delhi. You could taste and smell the independence. And I've been here for the last five-and-a-half years. Gulp! Has it been that long? But something in me has been yearning for some sort of change... some sort of movement. And I'd love the taste of just living on my own, for once, for a while. Because if all goes according to plan (and we all know how it seldom does), the NEXT move, will be the move back home.

So, in the next week to ten days. I'll be leaving. I'm excited, but apprehensive too. Happy, but with a catch in my throat. So this is what bittersweet tastes like. And there's panic, and terror: I have so much stuff!

Back To You

I know it was me. I'm the one who left. I'm the one who went to someone new. But I'm begging you to let me come back to you.

I left because I was young, and seduced by the possibilities out there. You were too simple, too plain, too ordinary. I wanted to taste glamour, experience another culture and immerse myself in all the opportunities - whether it was old-school sophistication and elegance or the shiny brashness of something younger. I left because I was silly enough to believe that YOU weren't enough. I felt I could get better, and in my arrogance believed that we didn't fit well together.

I was so wrong. My heart belongs - has ALWAYS belonged - to you. I'll be honest and say you're not the most beautiful of my dalliances. Others have stunned me with their sheer splendour - whether natural or aided by man's many great inventions. And you're not the most savvy or complex or dynamic. But there's something undefinable that keeps me coming back.

I've cheated on you with many many cities, but Nairobi... if you'll have me, I'd like to come back to you.

A Night Like This

A year ago, it was a night very much like this one. The sky was clear and seemed so near that I felt that if I reached up high enough I could glide my fingers over it, and maybe polish it with a washcloth in the hope of getting the smattering of stars to twinkle just a little brighter. The breeze was as cold, teasing my loose hair and pasting a few wayward strands on lips that were sticky - partly from my lip balm, and partly from the sweet hot dark chocolate I was drinking to warm me up. The crowd was similar - a cacophony of groups of light-footed friends, cuddly couples and young families with heavy-lidded children. The gifted singer-guitarist on stage last year was different, however. Last year the songs were about love and heartache - my cloudy mind errantly connected them to angst and emotions so big they exploded out of me and blinded me to the joys and happy truths surrounding me. They fuelled my self-pity, and my silly heart lapped up the words and melodies and continued on it's downward spiral - encouraging it's wounds to bleed and bleed and bleed... discouraging them from healing. It was as though it didn't want to mend.

Tonight, the man on stage sings simply - of love and life and loving life. And once again my fickle heart feels a resonance to THIS gentleman's music.

On a night like this one, what feels like a long time ago, not only was the man on stage different, but so was I. Tonight we are about hope and healing and love and joy.

Fifteen minutes

I pledged to myself, and a dear few, that I'd write daily for at least fifteen minutes... This was probably about fifteen weeks ago if not more. The pledge was well-meaning... I enjoy it, it's cathartic, and a few out there tell me they DO enjoy reading what I write (I'm wary of believing this, but I kind of do, too).

So let me be clear. I thought about it. Several times. I bought a cute notebook, and carried around a fancy pen (it's purple and sparkly) I received as a gift. Took it on my little excursions around the city, on the metro, on the bus, to work, on my flights, and it was ALWAYS on my mind. I'd think about what I'd write, how silly it would be, how I'd be too lazy to rewrite it, how something clever and funny might creep in and startle and delight me. I thought about what beverage I'd have, or what music I'd listen to while I wrote. If I was in public, I'd wonder what people would think if I whipped out my cute book and started jotting down furiously. I got worried in chilly weather, wondering if my fingers would cramp up from the cold and lack of practise and whether they could keep up with my very quick thoughts (yes, am laughing too at the thought of me being a quick thinker).

Then it occurred to me, that if what I wrote passed muster, I might want to upload it on my blog. I realised I'd have to then type it out. So I decided to save my writing for the most part when I was home, and forgot to carry my cute notebook everywhere. I'd think about what I'd write as I washed the dishes, my hair, my clothes or just sat online downloading movies, and read other people's writing. And again the speed worried me. What if my typing speed was too slow? Or if my computer crashed (it's in its last stages) and I lost a whole heap of really phenomenal writing (I'm laughing too)? Also I'm missing a 'W' key, and it always takes a little more effort when I have to type something using that letter. I worried about prose that might have too many 'W's and hamper the flow of my amazing thoughts that I just HAD to share with the world.

After a rather long time I realised I was procrastinating, and had to dig into why. I discovered I was worried I'd continue ranting (which is why I paused my writing for a while... I got a bit sick of being so whiny), and then I worried words would fail me... as they have started doing, and it scared me. I tried a few times, and well... the results were inane and rubbish and a bit of a snooze-fest (even more than this, if you're still being kind enough to read), but after much deliberation and a selflessness that didn't want to put crap out there into cyberspace, I decided: screw selflessness, I'm going to try and write anyway (there's enough crap out there in the world wide web for mine to feel quite comfortable) - in the hope that practise will make me better. For your sake more than mine.

Fifteen minutes. Day one.

Extraordinary

This is going to be a rant and a rave and then some. Consider yourself warned.

I am done sitting by, watching amazing, extraordinary people take crap when they really shouldn't. When they should know better. When they make excuses for the crap givers because they begin to question how extraordinary they truly are.

Listen to me. And listen hard. Be brave and acknowledge that you are truly amazing, and people around you should treat you accordingly. I'm not talking red carpets and expensive gifts and whatever other superficial stuff. I'm talking respect, and honesty, and love. I'm not saying you should be proud and act like you are the salt of the earth. Acknowledge what you deserve from people around you. PLEASE. You are too good to be living life by somebody else's rules when your inner happiness, and inner sunshine, and inner spirit and inner extraordinariness is at stake.

You are extraordinary. It is your gift to share it, and look after it. If you dampen it, you will have to answer to no-one but yourself.

The Moth and the Flame

The flame burned brightly, minding its own business. Alone. Aloof. Strong and silent. It flickered tantalizingly, unaware of its appeal, and the light it threw about just by being.

The moth stood in the shadows, observing quietly. She couldn't understand why she was drawn to this quiet, enigmatic flame. She could feel its light and its warmth, and she wondered if she dared get close... if she dared reach out and touch it...

It paid her no heed, just shared light and heat and energy unconsciously.

She thought, and gathered courage, and finally went straight to it... edging a wing into the liquid, airy orange. And the flame consumed her. She became the flame.

Instant Generation

As people living in relatively big cities go, I've always thought of myself as having a slow pace. I love lazy mornings, and lazy afternoons, and... lazy evenings too. I feel like a lot of people around me are in a race to get things done, and experience things, and not lose a single moment. I'm a bit laid back in comparison. I could TEACH the art of smelling the roses, and whiling away the time, and floating along patiently until the next best thing.

Or so I thought.

Until recently when I had a whole bunch of experiences - you know... the kind that make you grow (I hope), and learn, and mature (again, I hope). And as experiences go, I am not naive enough to believe that many haven't undergone bigger or more or worse or better. But they were significant enough for me to be thrown off-kilter... for a while. For a seemingly LONG while.

And then I realized: I'm not as patient as I previously thought. You see I have access to goods, and services, that are built to save time. That's why I'm able to loll about as much as I do. There's fast food everywhere, pre-cut vegetables, two-minute noodles, and instant microwavable meals. There's also home delivery and take-out. There's internet and telephone and airplane freight and travel, which makes the waiting of just a few years ago appear obscene and inefficient. This is not to say there are entire societies still living in a whole different level of pace. But well... I'm talking about me here. And for me, and the life I'm living, I'm not really used to having to wait for things. And while this is great from the consumer me point-of-view, it's kind of screwed me up on the personal point-of-view.

You see, what I have finally learned is that personal growth and maturity is a slower process.

A. Much. Slower. Process.

It takes a while for you to evaluate your experiences and reactions and challenges and see what they mean to you, and how best to accept and accommodate them into your life. I've driven myself, and a whole lot of poor people crazy trying to understand the whys and whats and hows and what do these things mean queries because I wanted instant understanding and instant fixes. As a friend said, we of the instant generation want to rush into, and out of, everything. Action, reaction and assimilation. We're a pretty arrogant bunch like that. We have forgotten to respect time - something we really have NO control over.

Even that microwavable meal underwent a lengthier processing time, than it takes to heat it. We forget. I forgot.

Lesson are far from instant. Epiphanies appear to be... but there's a quiet rumination that pushes them forward. That's what this epiphany tells me anyway!


I'll end with a beautiful quote by Haruki Murakami: “As time goes on, you’ll understand. What lasts, lasts; what doesn’t, doesn’t. Time solves most things. And what time can’t solve, you have to solve yourself.”

I'm working on solving what I can... and well... there's just no rushing time!