Baby Shrine

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While out cycling today, we came across a little shrine of teddy bears. One year ago a newborn baby was found abandoned in this drain. Fortunately, there are many cyclists cycling by, and the cries of the baby were overheard. He was rescued and placed into the care of the state.

http://m.dailytelegraph.com.au/news/nsw/newborn-baby-found-down-drain-in-quakers-hill-by-passing-cyclists-mother-identified-as-30-year-old/story-fni0cx12-1227132004892?sv=5db1a5fc4836f62ac9f24e610f92a095

Memory Lane

I came across these pics yesterday. Twelve years ago and I was so in love with my baby! Who has now grown to be taller than his mum, and is no longer a beautiful baby boy. #bringbackmybaby. When I saw these photos I thought of how young and idealistic I was, and how I have changed since then. My mother-in-law has passed, but my daughter has arrived. Johannesburg is then, Sydney is now. And twelve years later I write poetry to help keep myself sane. Well, relatively sane, I still have meltdowns – last week I had a meltdown of note and still trying to recover. When I see these pics I feel saddened by how I have let myself down, but am glad I discovered writing.

And I still don’t wear contacts or reading glasses, yay!

Place of Safety

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This morning I thought about a spiritual ‘place of safety’. A place of prayer and quietness where we can connect with our Creator and know that we are loved. How natural experiences can leave us with such a void inside that there is nowhere to go, but onto our knees to connect with our Lord. I would like to share something very personal that happened today. The term was so strongly pressed on my heart, I was trying to find references of safety in my morning study, and thinking of a poem I wrote a year ago titled the same ‘Place of Safety’. I know that I am believing in a living God when we were invited to sing a hymn this afternoon and right there in the first verse were the exact words ‘place of safety’ mentioned. Where to find a place of safety when hiding from storms so near? This was after I wrote my previous post Self-Sabotage. It was mentioned to me many years ago – we may not like to invite experiences to cross our path, but always be thankful for whatever may bring one to a place of prayer. A place of prayer and safety.

‘Is the master at the helm?
Hear him whisper, peace be still’

Poet by Night

I’m presenting an Analytics presentation this evening. Especially for the occasion I put on a touch of lipstick and black heels. Viva Polka Dot black dress and black jacket.

So anyway, as I entered the room, I got told I don’t look like an IT Engineer. *I turned heads* 😉 What do I look like then? We don’t know, just not an IT Engineer.

I’m a poet by night?

Growing up in South Africa

Yesterday I updated a post to include a school photograph taken when I was eight. I was taken aback at the few things that stood out for me. I have written before about how unhappy I was at moving to a new school, and right before me was the evidence. It looks like I was scowling, and turned away from the camera as if I didn’t want to be there (which I didn’t).
Also, the other thing that seemed so normal to me at the time was the demographics of the class. I was brought up in the height of apartheid-era South Africa, and captured in the photograph was a testament to that. My children in Australia attend the local public school, and in their class they have children of all races.
I became especially aware of the politics of the country when I went to a convent at the age of 13, which was allowed by the State to include children of all races. My best friend turned out to be of dark skin, and we became the best of friends. This was from the year 1987, when apartheid was still strictly enforced. My friend was not allowed to catch the same bus as me. We were not allowed to have coffee in a coffee-shop together. But we looked past all that, and enjoyed the friendship that we had. It was just how it was. We are still friends today, even though I am so far away. What it taught me is that friendship is color-blind. Policies can dictate, but love overrules.

Scars

I was six turning seven when I started school. We lived in a little town an hour from the main city Johannesburg. My best friend and I had grown up together, we lived around the corner from each other and we were ‘family friends’. Her name was Angelique and we were best friends forever. Our personalities complimented each other.
In those days we used to walk in a group to school. Even from first grade, we would walk by ourselves without adult supervision. I loved my school. I loved my teacher. I had my friend Angelique and we would run amok and have as much fun as we could. I was the first child to be able to read fluently. So my teacher Mrs Van Wyk used to call on me to help with reading groups. I was really confident. And happy.
The following year my parents decided to move to the city. We left the week after my eighth birthday at the end of April. I started my new school in the middle of the term, was introduced to the class first thing on a Monday morning. I was never able to embrace the new school fully. I was always looking back.
This morning I saw a group on FB. It is a school group of my first school. They celebrated their sixtieth anniversary last year. A couple of people in the group remember Mrs Van Wyk. It seems she really was as nice as I can remember her.
And I realize we scar in our lives. And sometimes time doesn’t quite heal those scars. Even now over thirty years later I find myself looking back. I can enter into those feelings. I wish we hadn’t left. I wish my parents hadn’t removed me. From a place where I was happy and confident to a place where I never quite fitted in.

Tears on my Pillow

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The rain started to fall. Softly at first. You know that quiet calming hum of raindrops falling. And then the thunder started. I lay in bed surrounded by pillows, and allowed myself to be comforted. By the world crying in harmony with my own tears. The rage of the thunder matching the rage of my own heart. I felt at one. And even though I knew my world would never be the same, even though I would have to find a new way, I knew, yes I knew, that everything would be okay. That once the storm had passed and my tears had dried, that I would find the strength to rise up again.