a tiny story with a Great Author

This blog was supposed to be about my writing.  It was going to be tiny stories that I wanted to write.  And I suppose it will be.  But I don’t care about writing any more.  Or being a good writer.  I just have a need to share my story.  My tiny story that may or may not be interesting to anyone else.  All I know is that it is a story and I hope that it can encourage someone else.

It is rather ironic that I named this blog Tiny Stories when in reality I was waiting for a big, exciting story to take place.  This year I set out on an adventure.  I left my home and country so that I might travel and experience different places and different cultures.  I felt fearless and excited setting out, ready to take on the world and write a grand life story.

However instead of a grand story, I found everyday life.  This is honestly turning out to be the toughest year of my life. To be far from your family and in a very cold and exclusive culture and to know that there is no going back, you have to face your time – it can honestly break your heart.  I know it has broken mine.

However, I know that I was called to such a time as this.  Although I feel as if I made the biggest mistake of my life in coming here, I know that I will look back and see that this year has been for something glorious.  God never lets anything go to waste.  Even if it was my determination that got me here, He in fact brought me here and is doing something much more wonderful than I could ever imagine.

Many a day I sit and cry. I no longer have shame who sees me, I cry on the subway and in the library and in the park and as I boil pasta for the children’s dinner.  At first I did not understand all these tears.  It is not as if anything terrible has happened or that my situation is awful.  Telling myself that did not help though, it just made me cry more for feeling guilty about crying.

A wise man once said that hope deferred makes the heart sick.  And I can honestly say that my heart is sick. I had pinned my hopes on a dream.  I believed that I could do anything if I put my mind to it. I believed that I could choose my life and decide how it should play out.  My hope was in me and my abilities.  And I have discovered the difficult truth that you don’t get to make up most of your story - you get to make peace with it (Ann Voskamp, aholyexperience.com). 

God is so faithful.  He will not let us go.  He will not let us settle for less than Him and the goodness of Him.  He will do whatever it takes to bring us closer to Him.  And although my heart has experienced more loneliness and anguish than I sometimes think that I can bear, I am grateful for it.  This experience has caused me to make Him my only hope, my only boast. 

I can no longer boast in my cleverness or my standing in society or my willpower to go for what I want in life.  I have come to the end of myself.  I have been broken.  And that is what I want.  I want my life to be eternal. I have seen much of the world now and done many things that I always dreamed of and yet have found it all to be meaningless. The one thing I know to be true, to be worth investing your hope and beliefs in, is Christ.

So this is my tiny story.  It may be depressing, but it is in fact filled with hope because of the marvelous Author who is writing it. He knows the end, and with Him, the end is always a good one where everything works out.  He likes clichés like that.

Spring's Arrival

I wring my hands self-consciously.

“Keep your back straight” I tell myself.  I have a tendency to hunch my shoulders when feeling awkward.  I absolutely hate these situations.  I now seem to live in them permanently. “Where should I stand?”  “What should I be doing?”  “Should I even be here or would it be better for everyone if I left?”

I smile and nod at the other guests, trying not to look pathetic. The last thing I want is to be pitied by them.

 I look around for something to do; if I am useful then I might feel as though I belong.  The children are ordinarily my chief duty, and they are playing noisily in the room adjacent. The parents have to raise their voices to be heard over the clatter of toys and the shrieks of excitement. I walk unseen past the chatting guests to go see if I can help the children in some way.  I admire the girls’ drawings and help the boys get the toy cars down from the cupboard.  They aren’t interested in me however, and I don’t want to make the parents feel like I am the hired help.  Tonight I have been invited to the dinner party as a guest.

Rejoining the adults, I am offered champagne and hors de oeuvres.  I certainly am being cultivated in the finer things in life.

I try to make small talk with the guests; the language barrier an added strain. I manage to converse haltingly on the topics of weather and occupations.  This is what basic language courses prepare you for.  It is the more in-depth conversations of politics and the humorous anecdotes where I lose my way and find myself like Alice at the tea party: bewildered yet trying desperately to make sense of it all.

Dinner was served: oxfile with red wine reduction, Italian salad leaves and pureed cauliflower.  Eating now kept me preoccupied and out of forced conversations about the weather and life in South Africa.

Usually, my initial instinct is to avoid these situations at all costs.  It certainly was the easier route to take.  I had half thought of making up an excuse for tonight - that I had an engagement and would be out - when really I would be wandering around the city, feeling lonely and pitiful. 

Now, as I sit around the table with the hum of conversation surrounding me, I look out the window and see the last traces of winter disappearing and small bright buds appearing on the walnut tree.  I am proud of myself for choosing to come.  The drab, brown grass will soon be a brilliant green after the snow melts.  Spring always made the winter worth it.

I sip my wine and cut into the tenderest of ox fillets, I feel a glint of contentment. This small town farm girl is far from her expected life.  I had faced some heartache, leaving my home and all that was familiar, and for weeks now I had felt like it had been a mistake. But, I was exactly where I wanted to be.  I had taken a giant leap out of my comfort zone and that is why I had come: to experience life in a different way, to be challenged, to grow, to be cultivated, to meet new people, to see myself more clearly and learn to be adaptable. It dawned on me that I had had to make it through the winter in order to experience my own spring.

 I listen to the conversation around the table with half an ear; the language is slowly but surely becoming familiar. I feel a flicker of kinship with my host family who catch my eye and smile at me from across the table.  My own Spring is budding. My seemingly dead branches of loneliness are blossoming into confidence and although painful at first, the beauty is worth the risk.

South African Ghetto

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There were not many people in the small gallery. 

“We can make a quick getaway if this is not fun,” I said under my breath to my friend Lara, a born South African but bred Swede, who I had dragged along with me for moral support.

We stood in a corner, feeling awkward with our heavy coats and handbags, nervous lest we bump and break some of the art or craft work.  A Ugandan artist’s work was on display.  The bright colours and irregular shapes of people and city skylines was so comforting in a country in love with modernism and Ikea prints.

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“Welcome ladies,” said a soft spoken coloured man, handing us each a business card for ‘The South Africa Society in Sweden’, the organizers of this event.  He welcomed us to join the group and take part in upcoming events such as potjiekos competitions and Youth Day braais. 

“Oh for a proper braai with proper meat.  There will definitely be no falukorv and hotdogs there!” I exclaimed to Lara.

Grapetizer, was being offered around by a young woman with a strong Coloured accent and a friendly, open manner.  Her green African print headband was just as bright as her personality. She joked and laughed at herself, making me feel comfortable and welcome, almost like we knew each other from a previous occasion. 

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Slowly but surely people began arriving.

 

“Howzit!”

“Yslike, this wind is cold man!”

My heart was filled with joy and I smiled involuntarily as I recognized the jargon, accents and dialects of my fellow countrymen. 

A tall Zimbabwean-born, South African-bred man introduced himself to us.  He freely asked personal questions and openly shared his feelings. 

A gay CapeTonian with his cardigan and high-pitched voice still seemed manly in comparison to the average metro-sexual Scandinavian man.

Two women with strong Cape-Coloured accents laughed loudly as they sat on the gallery stairs, observing the musicians setting up. 

The stereotypical South African men in jeans and T-shirts were such a comfort to eyes exhausted by style and high fashion. 

These were people who I could understand.

There was barely room for us all in the gallery’s small back room and we rubbed shoulders and squeezed together to fit in.  This was as it should be at a gathering of South Africans, a society accustomed to overpopulation and overcrowding. 

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The proceedings began with the singing of Du Gamla, Du Fria and Nkosi Sikelela Afrika. I observed one South African with their hand over their heart.  Such a gesture was the utmost sign of respect and my eyes filled with emotion. In Sweden and much of Europe, such a gesture would be interpreted as dangerous and nationalistic whereas for us it represented unity and love. My tears soon turned to laughter as Vanessa and I caught one another’s eye, we both knew the language of the Swedish national anthem as much as we knew our own – very poorly!

Presently the Swedish hip hop musicians began sharing about their collaboration with South African musicians and all that they had experienced. 

Suddenly, the proceedings were interrupted as, in true South African style, the Ambassador arrived late.  She wore traditional African dress with a head dress and beads. The polite, young Swedes stepped aside to give her room. No doubt they had experienced this sort of thing on their travels in South Africa.

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“Good afternoon ladies and gentleman. I am so proud to see so many South Africans united in celebration of the freedom of our country.  It is you who are, the true ambassadors of South Africa.  Don’t lose your friendliness, your Ubuntu, here in this cold, unfriendly country....”

I was attacked with a case of the giggles. I knew her.  She was my university lecturer; she was the minister of some obscure government cabinet; she was the clerk at home affairs; she was a stereotype who frustrated me back home but who I missed in the dignified and ordered proceedings of Sweden. I felt as though she would surely give me a hug and call me ‘her baby’ should I greet her.  Her lack of diplomacy and disregard for Swedish social norms made me proud and happy.  She truly was proudly South African and had not been shamed into changing her culture to fit in - as I was guilty of doing.  I thought her admirable and brave.

After the presentation I joined the motley crew for drinks in a nearby restaurant. A tall, skinny, coloured man with crazy curls flopping round his face like a small puppy’s large ears entertained me with stories of life in Europe. 

Some had come for work, others for love.  Most had stayed for their careers.

“Don’t believe in the fairy tale of a Swedish prince my girl,” a divorced woman advised.  “If you want a pretty face then you got to be happy with the personality of a f***ing doorknob,” she said dryly  elbowing a poor Swedish man beside her who simply laughed and nodded in agreement.

The South Africans’ relationship with the country and people had been similar to my current feelings initially. 

“I hated it.  Hay-ted it.  Hated the f***ing weather.  Hated the f***ing food.  Hated the people too.”

“And now?” I asked, desperately hoping that things would improve.

“Ag now I like it.  This is the best time now.  The summer is magic.  Magic ek se.  Everyone out in the streets.  Braaing and drinking.  A lot of parties you know.  You gonna love it.  Now the city comes alive.”

The chairman of the South Africans in Sweden Society ordered chicken wings and chips for the table to share.

It was wonderful to share food with these simple people.  There was no propriety and rituals to eating.  No sitting primly and refusing on the grounds of vegan-ism or vegetarianism, no stick-thin beauties disciplined and self-flagellating. Men and women tucked in, licking their fingers with no regard for the opinion of others.  They sat comfortably on their stools, reaching across one another and interrupting with their own anecdotes and experiences.

We were a politically incorrect bunch.  Stereotypes regarding race and gender were freely stated although a more diverse group you would not find in the entire restaurant.  Quotas for black, white, coloured, old, young, male and female were all filled. We were foreigners yes, but our group also included a few Swedes who clearly enjoyed the company of South Africans.    

I felt for the first time since leaving home like I was truly understood and accepted.  I did not have to explain myself or put away my slang and humour.  I did not have to impress or present myself in an acceptable manner.  I was South African and a part of the family of South Africans.  I now understood why foreigners are so reluctant to assimilate and so eagerly sought their own people and formed ghettos.  Among your own people, you were protected and found a place in a very large, rather unforgiving city. 

An Appetite for Art

It was a much longer bus ride than I had expected.  I was not even sure where I was supposed to get off and was loathe to give away my identity as a tourist and ask for directions.

I stared out the window and felt invigorated by the electric energy of the city on a Saturday morning.  The streets were busy with buyers, buskers and beggars.  The homesickness that had been weighing on my heart lifted temporarily as I felt a part of the city.  I was a resident of one of Scandinavia’s largest cities and that was something exciting and enlivening when I considered it.

The Scream

The bus was now twisting its way through the national park in the middle of the city. Here the dawning of spring was making itself evident and much of the snow had melted already. Although the grass was still a dullish brown, crisp green shoots and even small, delicate flowers were introducing colour into the landscape which for so long had been only seamless white.

The Turkish tourist next to me mistook me for a local and asked if I knew where his stop was.  Surprisingly I did, and I felt a strange joy for having helped someone and having had contact with a stranger.  In the isolated lives of Stockholmers it was not common to be spoken to by your fellow passengers or to be asked for help. I dearly missed the interaction between citizens which was so common in my home country. I realized that I ought not assimilate to the coldness of this culture but rather reach out to the many other foreigners and even locals who might also be seeking friendship.

The Sick Child

We finally reached the bus stop for the Art Gallery and I climbed out with the crowd of art enthusiasts.  Together we walked up the small hill to the grand art gallery which had been the former residence of a well-to-do family.  The large garden was dotted with nude statues mottled green with age and I stood a while in silence appreciating the stillness of nature and the view of the river.

Inside, the old house was buzzing with activity.  I hung up my jacket, and paying for my ticket, proceeded up the old staircase to where the main exhibit was on display.  I was unacquainted with the artist, Edvard Munch, but slowly began to realize that he must in fact be rather famous because of the large number of admirers.  His artwork also had that quality of great art which commands respect and I felt that I needed to give each artwork the appreciation it deserved.   I followed the numbering and names of each art work from a sheet provided and made notes of which art works I liked best.

Four Girls in Argardstrand

In a separate room, guarded by a prim curator, were some of Munch’s largest paintings.  My first reaction to his artwork was not one of particular appreciation; the colours were too bright and the faces of his subjects too large and almost harsh. However, the more I gazed at the colours and techniques used, a strange delight filled me.  The more I looked, the more I saw.  I could read so many stories into each scene and an appreciation for the artwork in itself began to grow in me.  It was a wonderful sensation, something that I had not felt before.  Suddenly I understood art, its importance and necessity for society.  I felt myself being enriched simply looking at the expression of another person’s feelings and interpretations of the world.

Girls on a Bridge

Unexpectedly I had developed a need to see more artwork; to gaze at other lines, shapes, forms and textures, just to satisfy my new found appetite.  This was a new and strange sensation; one that I knew could be filled in the richness and tradition of this place. I felt hopeful about my temporary home knowing that I could be enriched in this foreign land and go back to my own country with something to share.

Images courtesy of http://www.artcyclopedia.com/artists/munch_edvard.html