Truth I Know For Sure. 4 to 37

I wish I could tell you my heart and my soul, speak the words that would make you see…

Alas, I am not that gifted.

What I know for sure is that I will always be the softness you seek because your hard will never ever be too much for me; I will never fear it; never be unable to take it. You will never be too much for me. Pity then that we are complex, multi-dimensional creatures; that soft is not all you need and that this soft is far too much for you; that hardness without substance holds no appeal for me no matter how perfectly safe that hard is.

This too I know for sure: I am not for everybody and everybody is not for me and that is OK.

4 to 37. Truth may make me miserable but damn if it won’t always set me free.

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Momentum. 6 to 37.

If my memory of Physical Science serves me well, momentum is that thingamajig that explains motion.

Right?

Close enough.

If momentum is a measure of movement and if I’m here in this life motionless, stagnant… It’s that get-off-your-assedness that’s been so elusive. Procrastinator of note, me. Sengimila lempande.

My tribe – that motley crew of misfits to which I belong; that cross-section of humanity whose love makes me think I am not worthy; those individuals who without blood to bind us have chosen me and allowed me to choose them – my tribe has been telling me one thing since the beginning of the year: do it. And that message is resonating and resounding everywhere I turn –

And then Divine Creative weighed in –

And then goddesses showed up and they’re showing out and all I keep hearing is: do it. It’s rather unnerving to have your dreams spoken to you, to realise that nothing is out of reach if you would but reach out –

Serendipity. Synchronicity. Kindred spirits gathering. This is the song of 37.

Something New. 7 to 37.

Something new approaches,
Something different to what has come before.
It is utterly unshaken in its well-wishes for me –

Tells me I walk not alone but with
Dlaminis, Ncubes, Ndebeles, Mpofus, Tshumas – all those whose blood flows within me, whose choices converged in me
Ngitsho loGog’ uMaNtshingelana –

A child of many stories am I
And a woman of many more.
It is quite unknown at least to me –
It is a new thing being done,
A new path that I carve
And I embrace old and new
And familiar and strange
And for all I give thanks –

Burn sage
And thank Divinity and the Goddess
And all of my angels
For mercy, for grace,
And for love.

-Beauty’s Daughter

Reminiscing and Moving Forward. 8 to 37

June, 2016

I was about to turn 35 (above) and I was happy. Life was good. So good. Not perfect, but pretty damn close. I had the attention of a man who made me feel good. My children and I were happy, I’d just moved into a new place with a beloved friend… And when that pic was taken, I was having an after-dinner cognac following a lovely dinner experience. At that point in my life I was in a good place, generally.

High drama: a snapshot of 2018

Two years later – give or take – and I’ve lived a dozen lives since then. I’ve experienced the ain’t-shit reality of mental and nervous breakdown. Anxiety so fierce I’ve become a semi-recluse. I’ve come *this* close to quitting my job. I moved and mourned the circumstances of the move for an embarrassingly long time. The ONLY thing that remains the same is that my children are happy. At least I’ve done that right, for the most part. For a given value of right.

Point is, two years ago I could not have dreamed today’s circumstances and yet here I am, here, still standing for the most part. 8 days to 37 I remember for the first time in a long time what it is to feel excited again; to embrace as-yet-unknown possibilities; to know I have no idea what tomorrow holds and be eager for it anyway. That’s a metaphor y’all, I’m not excited for Monday. Keep up.

Point is, I’m here and I’m happy to be here and I haven’t been happy in a long, long time. 2018 is pretty much the year of fail but suddenly thankfully light pierces the veil and I’m confident my year, starting next week, is going to carry amazing joy.

You know what else is true 8 to 37? That I’m tired of this damn challenge. It was a random, spur of the moment thing anyway and I’m over it.

I was in a very different place when I began than I am now so for what it’s worth, this challenge served its purpose well: I wanted to answer the question of what I’m about… And I think I’m getting there. We’ll see how I go this last week but I have a feeling things are going to change.

On The Hell That Is Being Woman

I don’t think anything in my life has caused me as much distress as the monthly bleed. Probably why I thoroughly enjoy being pregnant. Ah, periods.

Types Of Periods: An Inexhaustive List (that is a word, right?)

Unexpected ones when you’re wearing a white dress. This happened to me as recently as last year. One minute you’re fine and then you know, you just know immediately (after soaking through everything immediately), that everything’s gone to shit and you’re all kinds of screwed and not in the good way. There’s something about a bleeding vagina that just sucks the joy out of you, mid-laugh. The only way it could be worse is if you sneeze.

Unending ones that send you into hospital for vague procedures performed under general anaesthesia that yield inconclusive results. Six weeks, people! I’m still getting iron injections because that shit was real. At the time my biggest fear was that my legendary fertility would be compromised. I secretly think that entire episode was a manifestation of angry vagina syndrome…but more about that some other time. We’ll see how I go now that I’m team #celibacy_yamasimba. May the garden be watered and may it be watered well.

Periods that go AWOL: pregnancy scares are not the shit let me tell you, especially if like me every pregnancy scare has been an actual pregnancy. Super fertile, me, and I have zero shame about it. Yes, I’m open to having another baby. And?

I’ve had friends who’ve had late periods aka pregnancy scares and the reluctance to buy a test will always amaze me. So we must have this conversation about what if when you could just put yourself (and me) out of this misery? If you’ve ever told me you think you might be pregnant and been disappointed when my response has been practical rather than hysterical – Want me to come over with a test vs oh my God what are you going to do?! – I’m sorrynotsorry.

Speaking of pregnancy-related issues reminds me of this guy who, when we bumped into his uncle hastily whispered a request that I take care not to mention my child (I had one then). Wokhey.

I calmly waited until I was sure I had made an impression on the uncle because #leothings, then I asked if they minded if I popped into Game to look at toys for my son while they finished their beers. The shock on both faces was priceless.

That was the end of that dalliance because even in my 20s I had no time for that kind of foolishness and my tolerance for it has dropped even further now. I am a mother of two and you will deal. You don’t have to like it – I don’t always love it either, real talk – but I’m damn sure not going to carry your disdain or whatever that is that makes you think I should be ashamed of being a parent. Fuck outta here. Angiceli mpuphu ngini.

Special mention – period pain. That group of symptoms that includes sugar cravings, mood swings – I’m starting with the easy things – all the way through to less easy: debilitating abdominal and lower-back cramps coupled with nausea, vomiting and diarrhea. It’s rough.

I’m in my late 30s and I still can’t say I’ve figured this shit out because it actually is that unpredictable, forget that it’s supposed to be a regular cycle.
The happiest periods I’ve had were when I was in a relationship, when I was getting sexed on a regular, when I was emotionally centred and in a good space. So to increase my chances of happy periods I probably should prioritise self-care because happy, stable me = happy period. This bears some thinking, hmm? I have a theory about angry vagina syndrome, skin hunger, and period pain, and maybe one day I’ll tell you all about it.

For now, here’s to happy periods if you don’t already have them, if like me you’re still learning.

P. S. Remember those cute ballerinas advertising tampax/lil-ets on the back covers of magazines in the 90s,similar to the below? Lies. Filthy lies. Ain’t nobody wearing a mini tampon and white leotards when Aunt Flo visits. Ain’t nobody wearing a fucking pad to get on the beam. I don’t care who you are, if you say that you like your period you’re a liar and the truth is not in you. Just in case I’m just out of the loop though, comment your secret to a happy period, thanks.

Issa marketing lie. All of it.